What Darkness Erases, Light Devours
by FrightTrain
Summary: [ON HIATUS]Slytherin!Harry Harry is abandoned by his parents to the abusive Dursleys so they can focus on his twin brother, Liam, who they think is the BWL. Harry desperately wants to be a good person, but its not as easy as it looks. Can he accept that they will never truly want him, and move on? Harry may finds solace in one Severus Snape, but can Severus look past his prejudice?
1. Prologue: Godrics' Hollow

**Prologue: Godric's Hollow**

Lord Voldemort strode up to the conjoined cots with the intent of a man- well, at this point he was _more_ than a man (or less, depending on how one looked at it; though, of course, Voldemort believed strongly that he was the latter)- who knew, with an air of arrogant confidence that he was to succeed, and that such an easy task was surely beneath him!

Yet, of course, Voldemort, though paranoid and frankly insane, was intelligent, for all his debauched views of the world. If word got out to his Death Eaters about the prophecy; that this- _this_ _infant _was somehow stronger than him and that he _himself_ had not been the one to kill him, they would surely lose a great deal of respect for him. Though, mind you, nothing that he wouldn't be able to cure them of after a few bouts of the Cruciatus on them and their loved ones; but the sheer necessity of it would surely take away the pleasure he drew from their pain. Pain that he had caused, with his own power- a fact that's never ceased to bring a small smile to his face; _Oh_, the amount of _strength_ he held!

He revered in that strength now, leering at the sight in front of him. It had been all too easy for him to get the twin's parents away from them; Wormtail- whom he planned on killing soon after he outlived his usefulness as the Potters Secret Keeper, quite painfully actually; it had been a headache (metaphorically of course; for The Dark Lord never suffered from ailments as common as head pains), to be in the presence of such cowardice- Wormtail had lured them off successfully.

Presently, he scoffed in disgust, curling his lips at the two babes who lay in front of him, defenceless and vulnerable. One of them was snoring obliviously, his chestnut brown hair spread around him messily; almost giving him the appearance of a sleeping angel, if it were not for the obnoxious sounds coming from his mouth.

The other though...this one sat up, his attentive gaze fixed solely on Voldemort; his vivacious green eyes gazing into The Dark Lord's own blood red ones, and he practically growled at the disrespect the brat showed. He was _The One_, Voldemort decided, and it did not matter what his name was; after all, dead children did not need names. Voldemort gave the child an almost soft, albeit condescending, smile. The infant did naught else but continue to glare at him defiantly with those startling green eyes and black hair.

Almost preening at this point, Voldemort lifted his wand, laughing, reciting the incantation that he had done so many times before...yet, little did he know, that it would be a long time before he did so again.

"_Avada Kedavra_," he murmured quietly, savoring the words that slicked like honey from his tongue. But the boys eyes continued to glow that startling green, the very same shade as the Killing Curse that struck him not moments ago. And Lord Voldemort shouted in rage, but he found he had no voice as the curse rebound upon him and he became nothing more than a shade skulking in the shadows.

The boy, one Harry James Potter, now had a small scar shaped like a lighting bolt, silvery and barely visible, showcasing the very place where Voldemort struck him, on the center of his forehead. The young child sat cross legged and unperturbed ...that was, until Godric's Hollow started to crumble around him; the house shaking due to the sheer force of the magic that had taken place that night.

Liam Remus Potter took that exact moment to decide to awaken from the deep slumber he had been in; and he began wailing as debris fell harder and faster. Harry, for his part, raised his chubby arms in alarm, willing for something to shield both him and his twin brother, unaware of the fact that he was using magic- he simply wished to protect them both, and so it did…

"Liam! Harry! Oh, _James_! The _boys_, where the hell are they?!" cried out Lily Potter in desperation, near hysterics. She ran into the blazing ruins of the place she had been calling "home" for the past year, her fiery red hair messy and her leaf green eyes (noticeably less potent than her sons) shining with tears. Her husband, James Potter, ran in strides, hot at her heels as they made their way towards what had once been the boys nursery. Behind them was Albus Dumbledore, the custom twinkle absent from his pale blue eyes, as it had been ever since the blasted war had started.

The married couple nearly cried in relief at seeing their two sons safe amidst the wreckage. The pair sat in the same cot, Harry resting his head in Liam's lap as he cradled him happily, his forehead slick with blood dripping from a single, shallow scar on the left of his temple. It was about three centimeters long, curling in on itself slightly, resembling something like a crescent moon or a vertically elongated letter "C".

Lily threw herself at her children, cradling them happily as she pressed kisses to Liam, and a still sleepy Harry, who had magical exhaustion from the amount of raw power it took to both rebound the killing curse and to protect him and his brother, though none present were to be aware of that. James, for his part, gave Albus a confused look, who was beaming happily.

"God, Albus...What _happened_?" asked James hoarsely...and then a look of horror arose on his face as he realized. "Peter...he betrayed us! The _fucking_...He was a- He was bloody working for him, all along! I can't believe that-_that_-!"

Now Albus looked slightly distracted, replying, "Peter? Peter Pettingrew? So it wasn't young Sirius?"

James, still in shock, was now clasping Lily's hand in his as he stroked Harry's hair, grunting in agreement. "Yeah...Siruis-Sirius _knew_ that everyone thought he would be Secret Keeper, so he got the fucking rat, in every sense of the word, to be the one...but Albus, what in Merlins name _happened_?" the man reiterated.

Dumbledore looked delighted once more."Well, it seems Liam here stopped Voldemort!" The two flinched at the name as he carried on, seemingly oblivious, "It seems that he tried to cast The Killing Curse on him, but it rebounded on Riddle himself as Liam deflected it."

Both pride and shock surfaced on the couples faces. Lily whispered, aghast, "So...the prophecy…"

The two of them, as trusted Order Members and the parents of not only one, but two potential candidates for it, had been informed of the contents of the prophecy.

The Headmaster became slightly grave as he nodded, "Yes. By casting the curse on Liam, he marked him as his equal, which, in turn, self fulfilled the prophecy. The scar that he bears is a remnant; a curse scar that proves that he was the one."

James looked at him wide-eyed. "_Merlin…_" he breathed.

Lily looked at Albus, fear in her eyes as she cradled her children tightly, Liam noticeably closer and tighter than Harry. "He's...He's coming back, right? A-And _Liam_'ll have to be the one w-who-who…" She shuddered, and her husband enclosed her arms around her protectively.

Albus winced. "Yes, m'dear, I'm afraid so. At the moment, Voldemort is not dead, merely a weakened shadow of his former self. One day he will come back, but that won't be for a long time from now. We have plenty of time to train Liam until that time comes, and before then we will have him remain as innocent of possible, to live a fulfilling childhood. But for now, it is a joyous occasion, for after such a long effort, this War is over! So, let us celebrate, for Liam Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, will be famous, there shall not be soul who hasn't heard of him. The child has defeated Voldemort and made this possible!"

And, indeed, people all over the world, who heard the news of He Who Must Not Be Named's downfall by the hands of Liam Potter, The Boy Who Lived, were celebrating in his name, yet little did they know of the real events that occurred that night, and they wouldn't; not for a long time.


	2. Extra: Siriusly Guys, It Wasn't Me!

**Extra: Siriusly Guys, It Wasn't Me!**

Sirius Black was livid. Well, livid was a more docile way of putting it. Less eloquently, Sirius was _pissed_. And he had good reason to be. Oh, they had all just went along and _trusted_ Peter! And all this fucking time and after how much they'd wholeheartedly defended him from schoolyard bullies and Death Eaters alike, because the Marauders _protected_ _their_ _own_.

It hurt. A lot.

It _hurt_ that someone they'd went through such lengths to guard, someone who they would unquestionably give up their life for, would just dismiss them as soon as, what? As soon as there was a higher power that was willing to take _him_\- it was painful to think his name, so Sirius would just refer to him as The Spy- on?

Sirius doubted they'd ever find out the whole truth, but, _by God_, they deserved it. So, in a way that was uniquely _Sirius_, he channeled the pain into something else, into something stronger, because this was war, he couldn't afford to sit around and mope about how it came to _this_. This was one of the times that the implication of the seemingly endless battle they fought weighed on his shoulders fully- you truly couldn't trust anyone, no matter friend or foe.

He'd ran to the place where little Harry and Liam were kept, and upon seeing they were alive, well, as much as Sirius would've liked to stop and shed a few tears, offer Lily and James his- Condolences? Congratulations? Both seemed more than inappropriate.

Anyway, even though he wanted to stop by with the family in the ruins of the safe-house, he knew that it was a pointless endeavour, given that they were safe with Albus Dumbledore, Albus who turned from the twinkly eyed Headmaster who had a penchant for mischief makers such as himself, to this- _this_ _leader_, in all sense of the word, steely eyed and resolute. Sirius had always known that there was more to him, that he was the defeater of Grindelwald, that he was the most powerful wizard of their age, but it didn't really resonate with him, that it was all a facade, until he was faced with those eyes that were war weary.

It was then that Sirius knew that he had a whole of a lot of growing up to do, and that pranks were useless during a fight with Death Eaters, who fought to maim. to kill.

So, as soon as Sirius caught wind of The Spy's betrayal- _Why?_\- he ignored the fainter murmurs of You-Know-Who's defeat with reckless abandon. He was going to fucking kill him for what he'd done, and smile whilst he did it. After Sirius had been assured that the Potters were all alive and okay, he knew were his next destination was to be.

**iii**

Peter Pettingrew was scared. He was a desperate, desperate man. His Lord had been conquered, somehow, and now Peter had nowhere to go, no-one to turn to.

Of course, he could always scuttle back to the _Marauders_. He sneered at the thought of them. Oh, yes, precious little Black, charming Potter, and oh-so-intelligent Lupin. They were all so quick to scoop poor, timid Peter up, take him underneath their wing as though he were no more than a pet, a little charity project to look after. Well, he'd shown them! Gave his Lord the information to what was to be their downfall right underneath their pretty little noses!

So, no, Peter would not turn back to his friends. Not that he thought he'd be able to, anyway. Thick as thieves, the lot of them, oh yes. Peter pertained no illusion that they wouldn't murder him on sight, especially Black, Black who was slightly unhinged and valued _loyalty_ above all else. Peter was currently bustling through a crowd of muggles (God, why were they even awake at this time?) when the moment he'd been dreading came upon him. Oh, why him, why now, he just wanted to _wait _a little _longer_, wanted to enjoy what scarce freedom he possessed.

"Why did you do it, _Peter_?" Black all but snarled. His features were twisted in pure rage, his teeth bared as he aimed his wand at Peters throat. Peter whimpered.

"Whu-What are you t-talking about S-Sirius? YOU KILLED THEM, YOU KILLED JAMES AND LILY, DEATH EATER!" Peter was using the last things he had in his reservoir, he was desperate, desperate, desperate.

The muggles were looking on, gaping, in equal parts confusion and alarm.

At this point, aurors had started flooding in on the scene. Black began to whisper with anger, not comprehending Peter's words.

"_I'll kill you, I'll fucking kill you, Pe_-"

Peter ignored him and screamed louder, panicking.

"LIKE YOU TRIED TO KILL LILY AND JAMES?!" he repeated, frantic.

Peter had never been this scared, not even when he was in the presence of his Master, because as long as he made himself useful, kept his head down, The Dark Lord wouldn't _kill_ him, right? Or so he tried to tell himself. Either way, right now, Peter was in trouble. He idly noticed he was shaking, not that it was anything new. The Dark Lord was very partial to the Cruciatus Curse, Peter had soon discovered. His eyes bulged as James Bloody Potter arrived at the scene. No! _Nononononono_!

Peter, as it was, was not a particularly talented wizard, by any means. He possessed little in terms of raw power, and even fewer in means of ability. Magic was, also, something strongly based on intention, and if one looked, they would find that Peter possessed little wilfulness.

Yet Peter valued one thing above everything else, if he valued anything other than this. Peter placed great importance in himself. And, looking at James Potter and Sirius Black, Peter found something that he had not known he'd possessed. Blindly, he grasped onto it, not knowing or caring what it was, only that it was a means to escape his predicament. He shoved all his power into his next thoughts. "_Let them think it was Sirius, I don't want to die, I don't want to die…"_

The details were fuzzy for most, but what happened next was this: there was a massive explosion, unfortunately murdering twelve muggles in its wake, along with one Peter Pettingrew, much to national devastation. The only thing left of the poor lad was his toe, they said.

James Potter, his wife right behind, him confronted Sirius Black with unadulterated fury. . Despite Sirius's incoherent babbling, lies that went along the lines of-

"I didn't do it, Prongs, I _didn't_! You have to remember, it was Pe-"

"-Don't you DARE say his name, Black! And don't _call_ me that, you filthy Death Eater!"-he was arrested without trial, on the premises of working actively as a Death Eater, and thirteen different murder cases, in front of various witnesses.

No one paid attention to the three-toed rat that limped weakly away from the scene, exhausted.


	3. Another Extra: One Week Later

**Another Extra: One Week Later...**

James and Lily Potter sat pensively in the Headmasters office, with their son, Liam Potter. Harry was, as had become custom within that week, unnoticeably absent. They had been surprised by the summons for what Albus had essentially called a "Quick Chat" in his office. James, unable to stand the tension any longer between Liam's cheerful garbling and Albus crunching his customary lemon drops rather loudly, sighed.

Dumbledore, as though waiting for this cue, smiled beneficially. "I suppose you're wondering about the summons?" Sharp intakes of breath. "Well, you see it's about Harry." Noticeable breaths of relief. "I'm afraid that his magic seems relatively weak _and_...well, if he does turn out to be a wizard, he would be, naturally, jealous of his twin, and his status and fame. It would be a distraction for Liam, and I've considered leaving him with your sister, Petunia Dursley, and her family, if, of course, you would be willing?" At this, both Potters looked disinterested; Lily only slightly less so than James, who nodded instantly.

"We trust your judgement Albus. It's fine with us. Right, Lils'?" He turned towards his wife.

Lily Potter looked slightly apprehensive, "Well...Petunia doesn't exactly...She-she doesn't like...I mean, _would_ she-?"

Albus smiled at her, "I have already taken the liberty of contacting her," Lily blinked, "Petunia has agreed, plus, she has a son of her own, whom I believe will keep young Harry company."

"Of course, there are also the blood wards, which will keep him safe from any Death Eaters who wish to bring him harm for who his brother is." His eyes twinkled merrily, knowing that he had already won.

"Alright then, " said Lily only slightly hesitant; after all he had guided them through the war; who could she trust if not him, Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of all time and the Leader of the (so called) Light?


	4. Harry Hunting and Other Pleasantries

**Chapter One: Harry Hunting and Other Pleasantries**

"Boy! Get _up_! Don't you have any _shame_, to have darkened our household so much, and yet you remain so ungrateful?" shrieked Petunia Dursley as she banged loudly on the cupboard door.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia," Harry Potter called back softly.

He had, in fact, already been awake since four AM, after the hunger pangs had become too much to rest with. For the past five hours he had been reading a book, squinting with his broken glasses as he edged as close as possible towards the crack underneath the cupboard door that provided little light.

It was a Chemistry book, an old one that had, like himself and other miscellaneous items, been shoved into the cupboard underneath the stairs, at Number Four Privet Drive; unwanted and forgotten. The book had been one that was for someone way older than him, but through sheer determination and willpower, he'd managed to understand it cover to cover. Of course, he would read whatever he could get his hands on; it was a way to escape, to go to a world of knowledge and words; places where he wasn't in his cupboard; wasn't a slave, where he wasn't starved or beaten or a freak or chased by Dudley's gang.

Plus, knowledge equalled power, by Harry's' logic.

It was his own way of beating of them, proving that he wasn't _dumb_. He could never reveal it, of course, everyone would call him a cheater and his Uncle and Aunt would inform the school. But the fact that it was a secret made it all the more better, because _he_ _knew_ of his true capabilities and the prospect made him giddy.

That didn't mean that it didn't _hurt_ when they thought he was lying, of course it bloody hurt! No matter how many times it happened, it would

_always_ hurt. But that was okay, he was used to the feeling, by now. Yet, a large part of him knew that he deserved it. He was such a _freak_, like his aunt always _told_ him.

The raven-haired boy found, however, that his little "secrets" (such as the fact that if he didn't have to get lower than Dudley in all his assignments, he would pass with flying colours) helped.

There were, of course, his larger secrets, such as how he often practised his "freakishness" at nights where he didn't have any books to read, or tucked into an obscure corner of the playground where Dudley couldn't get him. Harry shuddered for a second, thinking of how mad his aunt would be if only she _knew_!

Trying to edge his thoughts away from punishment as his Aunt unlocked the cupboard door and grabbed him roughly (not that he'd have trouble covering any bruises; the Dursleys had already informed both the principal and PE teacher that he would become too _violent_ in any physical group activity, so it was best to make him sit out) by the arm to throw him out, he thought about how to fix the problem of the lack of light in the cupboard.

The light-bulb itself had broken years ago, and it wouldn't go amiss if he could somehow warm himself too. Harry remembered the joy he had felt after reading Roald Dahl's Matilda; it was his favourite book and had inspired him to pursue what he could do further, in secret of course; _always_ in secret.

It had taken him the better part of one summer, to master moving things with his mind, and he could only practice during nights, which made him especially exhausted during the day, especially considering that using his ..."abilities",for lack of a better term, always wore him out.

Oh, he'd gotten in _so_ much trouble for his apparent laziness that Uncle Vernon broke two of his fingers (which wasn't too bad, since healing was the first aspect of his ability he'd learned the hard way, and his second was a way to somehow make the injuries look like they were still there, which he'd also learnt the hard way when his Aunt screeched about his "Freakishness" and locked him in his cupboard for three weeks!), but it was totally worth it! He felt so invincible, and not like a freak at all, since Matilda wasn't considered as such.

Oh, how he wished he had a Miss Honey of his own to whisk him away! Unfortunately, he'd given up hope that would happen a long time ago, but he found that he would sometimes give in to fantasies; but they were nothing more than that- unattainable, childish dreams. Shaking his head slightly, he got up to make his "family" breakfast, as he ate the stale crumbs.

**iii**

Harry loved the school library. There were so many books he couldn't possibly count them all, which he had tried to do once, though he couldn't remember for the life of him what number he got up to, and not for lack of trying. There were all types of books: books about plants, books about science and maths and all sorts. Not to mention all the storybooks, which mentioned heroes with superpowers who were loved and adored by everyone and saved people and were never called freaks!

The library itself was old and dusty and all the shelves were rickety and the books were falling apart. It was absolutely _charming_, and everything had the feeling of being used and _loved_. There were no computers at all, nor anything else electronic save for the lighting and heating, which meant that most kids (such as Dudley Dursley) didn't give it a second glance because books were too _boring_ for them.

Harry loved the school library, yet the librarian hated him, for some reason. _Oh_, who was he _kidding_, it wasn't for _some reason! _Harry knew, _knew_ that the Dursleys had told the principal all about his "_violent, criminal tendencies,_" who had of course then had to inform all of the staff members! The Dursleys fed the school lie after lie (a part of Harry was saying that they weren't lies, and that they were right and he was a freak and he deserved it) about Harry's apparent "_behavioural problems_."

Of course, the teachers would readily believe anything they were told by other adults, and so even when the facts were staring them right in the face, with Harry being the most timid person in the whole class, when Harry got the highest marks in class (how was he even supposed to cheat if he were being watched all throughout his examinations?), they still believed the Dursleys over him.

Yet, Harry still tried to savour his time in the library and all the books he could read there, ignoring the fact that Miss Floe hovered over him like a vulture. He briefly remembered the one time he had tried to ask if he could check a book out, and how Miss Floe glared at him and given him a lecture on how _no_ she would _not_, how _dare_ he, she did not _condone_ vandalism of her books, and she even threatened to call the Dursley's if he attempted to ask again. It was similar to the lectures she gave him every time he'd entered the library, even though he would never dis-face a single page of a book, and never had, she still suspected him all the same.

Today was no different- from the moment he came in she glared at him, even as he reached out to pick up a book on the lunar cycle and continued reading, engrossed, until the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch. "Make sure you put that book straight back where you found it! I'll have none of your funny business, child!" The old woman sounded so much like Aunt Petunia that Harry wondered what on earth they had told her, but then decided he would rather not know.

Harry exited the library, only to find himself shoved into a wall the moment he did so.

A chorus of "Harry _Hunting_! Harry _Hunting_!" exploded around him as his cousin, Dudley, punched him repeatedly in the stomach.

"_Oof_!" he let out breathlessly, as he felt his ribs explode into a plethora of pain.

Harry found himself being kicked anywhere pudgy legs could reach, as he begged, _pleaded_, for forgiveness. Of course his platitudes were ignored by the children around him, who were laughing gleefully, and by his attacker, who continued his clumsy ministrations.

The teachers, for their part, either ignored what was going on, or decided he deserved it.

Harry worked desperately to keep his power in check, knowing he would only be punished further if he was found out. However, as soon as Dudley, who decided he was hungry after all his hard work, left, Harry allowed his pain to be washed away as he let his body heal itself, reveling in the feeling of pure power.


	5. The (Quite Questionable) Letter

**Chapter Two: The (Quite Questionable) Letter**

"Boy! Get the post, now!" barked Uncle Vernon to a now ten-year old Harry Potter.

"Yes, sir." complied Harry, flinching ever so slightly at the sound of his voice; not that he'd let Uncle Vernon see him do so, as it would surely result in the harsh buckle of a belt.

Placing the toast and bacon he had just finished making in the centre of the dining table for three, the scrawny boy headed towards the front door to pick up the mail that had been deposited at the bottom of the door. Crouching down, his black hair falling slightly into his eyes, Harry retrieved the post, flicking through it idly. _Votings Polls_, a bank statement for Vernon Dursley, a letter for-_for_…

Harry let in a sharp intake of breath as he held a thick, yellowed envelope addressed to _him_. Him! _Mr. , Number Four Privet Drive, The Cupboard Under The Stairs,_ read the envelope in emerald green ink and fancy calligraphy. He was shocked and confused, blinking to make sure he wasn't imagining it, but it was _his name_, yes, but…_The Cupboard Under The Stair_s? How the _bloody_ hell-

"_BOY_!" bellowed his Uncle, and in a split second decision, Harry stuffed the letter inside the overly large t-shirt he wore. "I'll not have any more of your insolence!" Which meant that he was getting the cane out. _Great_, he must've been really impatient this morning then. The scrawny boy darted into the kitchen, lowering his gaze as he muttered, "Sorry, Sir!" as he lay the remaining post atop the table. This, however, seemed to aggravate the massive man even _more, _if that were possible. Vernon exploded, his face turning purple in rage, "_Now_, listen here you _insolent_ _freak_!..."

And as his Uncle brought the cane down on him countless times, bruising his bones as Harry curled into a fetal position, silent tears of pain falling down his gaunt face, whilst his Uncle listed his many faults, his cousin simultaneously eating his third breakfast, guffawing at him in sheer _delight_, and his aunts eyes gleaming in wicked approval...Inside, Harry felt _victorious_ as he felt the thick letter press into him, because he _knew_ that there would be something life changing in it, and that the Dursleys didn't know he had it, and he was going against them yet again.

Of course, that didn't stop the pain, the red hot pain that made him shake all over and wish he were simply not there, it _didn't_, but something else burned brighter- a flame of hope that ignited in his chest and told him that things were going to get better.

**iii**

For all his curiosity, Harry had somehow managed to get through the day without just ripping the letter open, Durseys or no. Obviously, that was a death wish, and so the boy (still in pain from earlier, as he knew his Aunt would get suspicious if he were suddenly cured) _somehow_ managed to drift through his chores, weeding the garden and cooking roast chicken (Aunt Petunia's "_Wonderful_ _Duddikins"_ favourite!) of which, of course he got none of, unless you counted the offer to gnaw on the bones like the "_fucking mutt he was,_" which Harry, for obvious reasons, didn't. But finally, _finally _Harry was subjected to the retreat to his cupboard, which Petunia was locking him in for crimes he wasn't paying attention to, only nodding gravely or apologising where it felt appropriate.

Aptly, Harry listened for the tell-tale creaks that told him that his Aunt and Uncle had definitely turned in for the night, and once he could confirm they were sleeping from the thunderous snoring that he was frankly surprised none of the neighbours had complained about yet, he cautiously removed the letter from where it had been pressed to his stomach with shaking hands.

Decidedly, he placed the letter next to him whilst he crouched for a moment, relieving himself from the pain he had felt all day. Harry could have cried, and he did, indeed, release a few tears, at the relief he felt as the bruises faded away slightly and it didn't hurt so much to simply _breathe_. Blinking away excess water in his eyes, he willed for a small ball of light to appear above him, grinning slightly as it did. It was so pretty! One of the few private joys he had left.

He shivered slightly, as he wished for the room to become warmer. Feeling wholly comfortable and only marginally tired after expending his abilities, due to all his practice, Harry reached for the letter, breath catching slightly as he read the words on the envelope that had been on the forefront of his mind all day.

Trembling, he ever-so-carefully broke the old fashioned red wax seal that was on the equally old fashioned papyrus-like paper.

Excitedly, Harry started to read the first of the two letters that had been included.

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, _the first line read.

Hogawhat? Hog..._warts_? Witchcraft and Wizardry? Was that what he could do...but didn't wizards use wands? Head spinning in sheer bafflement and questions filling his head, Harry carried on reading, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

_Headmaster; Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress_

_Oh. _Well, this induced way more answers than questions. It could all be some sort of elaborate joke, but, of course Petunia and Vernon Dursley were not the sort to joke, and especially not with the likes of _him_. Dudley...No, Dudley certainly was not smart enough to come up with this, and even if he did the words were way too advanced to have been accumulated from his cousins highly lacking vocabulary, which consisted mainly of grunts and the singular pronoun "_I_", not to mention that Harry could recognise Dudley's handwriting, and he knew for a fact that his cousin didn't own such a fancy pen, _green!_, at that, nor did he have such weird paper.

But, the letter being real didn't make any sense either...did it? He hadn't had his name registered for such a school; his aunt had made it abundantly clear he was to attend Stonewall High, the local comprehensive, and had reiterated many, many times how lucky he was that she was going out of her way to dye his clothes the correct colour, for which he was expectedly grateful.

Yet, the "Wizarding" part implied that whoever this was knew of his abilities, which he was certain that he'd hid rather well, if you'd ignore certain slip ups, which Harry certainly did not make again after a few broken arms and was the night of the twenty-ninth of June, which meant he had two more days to reply to the letter, which coincided with the date of his birthday.

The whole thing was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, and all the made up words such as "_Mugwump_" made Harry's head hurt...Why was being described as such a word seemingly a revered position? And _owl_? Why would they...whoever _they _were, be awaiting his owl? Maybe it was a code word or something? But why bother using such codes if no one had informed him beforehand of what they meant?

It couldn't be a simple mistake of giving it to the wrong person, certainly not, since it had his name on it twice, once on the envelope, the other the letter. And then there was the fact that it had been addressed to the occupant of the cupboard underneath the stairs, and there was no way in hell that any of the Dursleys (apart from Dudley, who could have flaunted it whilst gloating, but Harry had already overruled Dudleys participation in any of this) had disclosed any part of his living environment, and there was no way in hell _Harry_ had.

Oh, he'd tried, alright. When Vernon had broken three (or from what he could tell) of his ribs when he'd tried to sneak some food from the fridge at night after he'd only been able to chew at some mint leaves and some water from the garden hose for the whole week. He'd read in a book about how a girl who was getting similar (though less harsh) treatment to him had gone to a teacher and it had all gotten better.

Stupidly, blindly, Harry had gotten _hopeful_. Gathering up all his courage, he went to his Year Four teacher, where he had confessed all about the cupboard, that starvation, even the _beatings_.

The teacher, Miss Bales, had never liked him, granted, but he'd read that teachers were _supposed_ to be impartial. Of course, what the books (which he now decided to use as a crutch for his own observations, instead of trusting them without further fact checking) had failed to mention was that impartial didn't mean much in the face of pure scepticism, distrust and something akin to actual hatred(?) (just what, exactly, had Petunia _told_ all the staff? He was _nine_ years old and a seemingly mediocre and mostly quite student, for God's sake, how could he elicit such emotions?), and that, when faced with such accusations, their resolution was to actually inquire with said people who were being accused.

Needless to say, the couple had reigned in their temper and had, in a few well placed simpering comments and remarks, had given a seemingly standard lecture of:

"_Poor_ _Harry_ has never been the same after his parents were killed in that car crash. We've tried all we could, but he's got a penchant for attention seeking and bullying, the child has a sort of sadistic streak, you see, and probably thought it would be funny to see us get in trouble by lying. It's a hard decision, but myself and Vernon are trying to help him get past it, but he refuses any form of therapy, and he's getting to an age where he tries to be quite, well, _violent_ and we're trying but it seems inevitable that he'll get a _criminal record _at this rate_.._." and at that point, Harry had stopped listening, feeling slightly sick and he had, actually, vomited what little food he'd had in stomach.

As soon as Miss Bales had left, there'd certainly been hell of the worst kind to pay. After the teacher had retreated with platitudes of regret for not pegging him out for a liar in the first place, and her condolences of the burden placed upon their family, the fake smiles had dropped and Harry found himself being slammed into the wall, _hard_.

Thick, meaty fingers closed tightly around his own thin neck as his Uncle snarled ferally at him, spittle accosting Harry's face, his eyes shut tightly as he bellowed, "You idiot, good for nothing freak! You fucking freak! You thought that you'd _tell_ someone, did you? Thought that they wouldn't be fucking happy at us beating the freak out of you? Now, if you ever think of telling someone about what goes on in _our_ household again, make no mistake…"

At that, the man chuckled darkly, his beady, piggish eyes taking on a darkly sadistic gleam of utter glee. Afterwards, it was pretty difficult focusing on much of anything, other than the _pain_. A punch to the jaw (in a rare divergence of retaliation to the unspoken to the "no visible marks" rule) so hard Harry was shocked that he managed to keep all of his teeth; Vernon kicking and punching every inch of him he could reach with all his force, which was a fucking lot considering the major size difference, and finally reaching for the belt, lashing out with all the force he had, his puce coloured face perspiring, his face victorious, whilst his nephew lay near comatose beneath him, defenseless, bleeding and in so much pain, he was shaking uncontrollably. Vernon smirked; stating coldly "_No_, I don't think you'll ever even _think_ of telling anyone."

And all Harry could think of was that he would never become the person his Uncle had described him as, never become a bully (which was putting it quite mildly, actually) or treat someone badly for no reason than _existing_. If Harry were to conform to the expectations everyone had of him, then he'd let his Uncle win, and then what would the point be?

Harry snapped out of his reverie, shaken, remembering the problem at hand. He decided that it would become obvious, once the evasive staff members of the odd school had realised that he'd not been able to _owl_ them (maybe they actually used real owls to communicate, since the words weren't capitalised as an acronym would be? But then how did they tame them?), they would provide the necessary means to contact him. Maybe Harry should mail them? But he had no money for a stamp and Uncle Vernon would have a fit if he realised that Harry had stolen something of his. Yawning, the boy belatedly realised just how tired he was. He decided to stow the letter away in a nook of the cupboard, lest it be discovered. Curling up in the warmth the cupboard provided, courtesy of whatever the heck he'd done to emanate it, Harry Potter fell asleep.


	6. Not-Really Family Reunions

**Chapter Three: Not-Really Family Reunions**

Morning found Harry dutifully cooking breakfast, as per usual, for the Dursleys. Though his mind was not completely engrossed with the task, he knew better than to let it distract him and ruin the food.

Then, just after he had finished buttering the toast, there were two successions of rapt knocking on the door. Harry's heart clenched; he couldn't let himself get too hopeful! Yet, he knew that the Dursleys always made sure that no-one ever turned up uninvited, so they'd be able to make sure that Harry wasn't visible.

It could just be a coincidence that his letter had shown up just the day before, right?

Uncle Vernon grunted at his "Pet-Flower" to tend to the door, and Harry could hear the click of the door opening and the obvious disagreement that followed as his aunt screeched heatedly at whoever was on the other side. He strained his ears as he tried to listen to the conversation whilst simultaneously tending to the breakfast; he'd gotten quite good at multitasking, over the years.

"..._No_, Lily! _No_, I told you that if I were to take him in he'd have no part in such _freakishness_, I _told_ you!"

Harry's heart sped up...were they talking about him? They must be. Who else would his aunt be referring to?

"_Tuney_...My son...have a right...his letter…" this was another female voice; speaking softly but with clear anger and impatience. Harry almost dropped the toast as he carried it towards Dudley and Uncle Vernon; Dudley who was eating sweets looking unconcerned and Vernon who was getting more and more plum faced by the minute.

Harry heard a venom laced "_Fine_!" from his aunt being spat as she moved out of the way to let two people through.

His heart sped up as he caught sight of the strangers…

At the forefront was a handsome, dark haired man, his messy hair long and untamed, his features sharp and his warm hazel eyes wide beneath wiry spectacles. He wore an odd style of clothing, coloured deep red and sort of like a toga; the hem reaching down towards his ankles and long sleeves that extended slightly past his hands.

The woman behind him had pale skin and angular features, her vivid red hair tumbling past her waist and her almond shaped green eyes, which, though not as bright as Harry's, were still strongly expressive. She wore normal clothing compared to her husband; pale blue jeans and a flowery blouse.

Harry stood, open jawed and wide eyed as he looked at the people who were, without a doubt, his parents. He could recognise Lily from the one old photograph he possessed of her, albeit in one which she was depicted as a child of roughly fifteen.

He could see the term "_My parents_", which previously were just words that carried with them strong emotions, bleary figures in the back of his mind from old, old memories of his childhood, suddenly sharpen with clarity.

_My parents_, who he'd dreamed about since he was one years old.

_My parents_, who he was told were dead.

He couldn't move, he couldn't, he was stuck to the spot, he was going to faint, he was.

_My parents are alive, my parents are alive, they're alive, they're fucking alive, _a mantra that coursed through his head as he stared at them in shock, greedily drinking up their features.

He wasn't sure how, exactly, he felt.

He was sad, happy, angry and more emotions that he, as a ten year old, couldn't name; he wasn't even _Harry_ in that moment, he was a storm of raw, unadulterated emotion and the singular thought _My parents are alive_.

Vernon stood angrily in front of a cowering Dudley, looking as if unsure as to whether or not to direct his fury towards Harry, the man, or the woman (Lily?), or to comfort his son, who was hovering over his pile of confectionery protectively.

"Just _what_," he spluttered, "_My house_! I'll have none of that...In here! That _boy_!" His rage was so strong it seemed that he was unable to string together coherent sentences.

Petunia stood to the side, radiating clear loathing for the couple who stood in front of her, her horse like features bared in something akin to a snarl.

The man grinned at Vernon, his eyes alight and mischievous as he reached out his hand towards him in a gesture of supposed goodwill. "Ah, you must be Vernon Dursley! Pleasure, pleasure. The name's James Potter."

Lily swatted at her husbands shoulders halfheartedly; she could recognise when he was less than saintly in his intentions. "_James_," she hissed.

Harry stood as still as he could, barely breathing, continually shell-shocked. His parents, Lily and James Potter (God, _God_ those were their names! Harry now had _names_ to the solitary figures that he'd unconditionally, irrevocably _loved_ without fail despite what was being said about them. Harry had only ever heard them being referred to by his aunt as 'lowlifes', 'drunkards', or 'Freaks'), were here, in Number Four Privet Drive.

So many questions, Harry couldn't even begin to think of them all. _Why did they abandon him?_, and variations of this question stood prominent. Was it because they didn't want him, or were they forced to give him up?

Presently James (Harry briefly pondered referring to him as "Dad" in his head, but then decided against it; he didn't want to set himself up for disappointment) _James _retracted his hand when Vernon refused to let his own meaty hands grasp them.

"Now, where's Harry? We presume that you've all seen the letter? We're on a tight schedule, y'see, we really need to pick Liam up…" Ignoring Vernon's indigent squawks, James craned his head, looking around presumably for Harry. He cast a hesitantly distasteful look towards Dudley, but Lily shook her head at him in silent disagreement.

Head spinning, nearly breathless, Harry stepped out of the shadows wherein he'd previously been cowering uncertainly in. Ignoring Vernon's hissed threats and Petunias glares, even though he _knew_ that he would be in trouble, in so much damn trouble when they left, Harry gave a hesitant smile towards the couple, trying to straighten out his hair slightly, even though James's hair was way worse in comparison.

"Hi," he said, nearly curling in on himself.

James and Lily looked at the child, _their_ child, in front of them. He was a small, unassuming thing, in comparison to his twin counterpart who was all big bones and confident stature.

He was dressed scruffily in rags that were way too large on him, and was pale as a sheet, like he'd never seen sunlight before.

The boy, Harry James Potter, had emerald green eyes with the slightest flecks of gold, that shone with emotion and were unnervingly luminous. They were bespectacled by circular glasses that had been broken and fixed many times with a muggle adhesive known as Sello-Tape. His hair, black as night, was like his father's; hopelessly untamed even as he attempted to give it some semblance to neatness.

Lily smiled softly in a detached sort of way towards the boy who could have been her own, had she wished it to be so. She knew that she had to be the mother Liam needed and that she couldn't afford to dedicate her time to anyone else other than her husband, so why, in Merlin's name, was she feeling guilty? Lily suppressed the feeling as soon as it arose, she knew it would be no good to dwell on these things, she was just here to pick the boy up, and then, then she could forget, even though he would live in her familys' home…

"Hello, Harry," she said quietly, feeling an inexplicable urge to embrace him but deciding against it at the last minute. She instead chose to lay a hand on his shoulder, and felt an indescribable emotion when he violently flinched away from him, seemingly as a product of habit.

The signs were all there, the skittishness, the thin frame, the used clothing...yet, either consciously or subconsciously, the two decided to ignore what screamed at them right in front of their faces, for they could not bear to be wrong.

James spared an amicable grin for Harry, as though they hadn't just met him, as though Harry didn't have a million and one questions. "Harry, great!… Go 'n get your things, we'll be leaving soon!"

Harry looked at James, equal parts confused and hopeful. "L-Leaving? W-What...I mean...They told me you were dead!" He was so frustrated he didn't stop to consider the consequences of speaking out of turn or raising his voice...but, then again, James Potter didn't seem the sort to hand out punishments, so it was easier to forget in comparison to being faced with, say, Uncle Vernon.

James turned towards Vernon, frowning.

"Is this true?" he asked, his tone mildly threatening. He didn't like that his sons victory was forgoned.

It was Petunia who answered, her pent up frustration finally released: "Yes! _Yes_, okay, we told the boy that his parents died in a car crash, and they might as well have been for all you cared! Nine years, _nine_ _bloody_ _years_ we kept this boy, fed and clothed him and tried to squash the freakishness inside him! _Nine_ years and you never contacted him, never stopped by, what were _supposed_ to tell him?! Take him _the fuck _with you and don't you dare bring him back after he's corrupted by that _freak_ s-school like _you_ were!"

By the end of tirade, Harry's Aunt was flushed and breathless in a most Un-Petunia like way. Harry watched with a detached morbid fascination.

"_Oh_, Tuney-" Lily began sadly, realising where her sisters reproach for anything magical came from.

"No! _No_, Lily _Potter_," She spat the name out like it was acid on her tongue. "You have five minutes to take that boy and your-your _husband_! Away from my family. We shan't be tainted by the likes of you any more!"

She said the last sentence with an air of finality before turning around and walking out of the kitchen, muttering obscenities underneath her breath.

Uncle Vernon looked torn between staying with Dudley, who was now continuing eating his sweets piggishly and unabashedly, and running off after his wife.

Lily was staring at in frustration at the direction her sister had just left in. James continued to be oblivious, as he turned towards Harry who didn't really know what to think. It was true that his parents had abandoned him, but they must have had a good reason, right? _Right_?

He certainly couldn't think of anything a one-year old would have done to cause their parents to leave them alone for ten years. Anyway, it's not as if Harry had much of a choice in the matter; Aunt Petunia had made it very, very clear that he wasn't welcome anymore at Number Four Privet Drive underneath any certain terms, and like hell Harry was going to turn his mysterious parents down, _anywhere_ was better than here.

James said to Harry rather brightly: "Righto then, kiddo. Pack your bags and we'll give you some time to say goodbye to your -um- _family_," He looked at Uncle Vernon and Dudley with obvious disgust as Lily once again swatted him lightly, "and then we'll take you home!"

_Home_. Harry wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Home was a somewhat foreign concept to him; it was either the Dursley's house or the cupboard..._Home_ insinuated somewhere where he felt comfortable and safe, and indeed Harry had never had a home before. The closest he could ever say he felt home was when he was reading books, and yes, Harry did realize how pathetic that was.

So...this man, James Potter, offering _him, _the freak who was a burden, who no one would ever, could ever, want, a home? Harry felt that he was entitled to being skeptical. But still...He could try. If he kept in mind not to become too attached, not to give too much of himself to an equation doomed to fail, since Harry Potter and positive words like happiness, success and loved, did not go in the same sentence.

(_Oh, If only Harry _knew_, back then, knew how heavily he'd fail at distancing himself emotionally, and that from the first time the couple stepped through the door at Number Four Privet Drive they possessed every emotional advantage over him, a gaping weakness within his seemingly unbreakable __armour_)

The boy gave another hesitant smile in answer to the blinding one given to him by James. "Y-Yes,... _sir_?" It came out as a question as Harry fidgeted slightly, unsure as to what to call his biological father by aloud.

James, for the first time since entering, showed physical discomfort, and even Lily winced slightly. He turned towards his wife in askance and then turned towards his son again. "Call me...Call me _Dad_? No, not Dad," for even he could figure out that they would never quite be father and son, not that he desired it to be so, after all, he had his hands quite full with Liam.

But if Harry was to be living with them, then he couldn't address him so formally. "Call me James." And then he grinned happily again, as though nothing were wrong.

Either the man had an iron grip over his emotions, or he was just painfully oblivious.

Harry blanched slightly as James as good as told him that he didn't want Harry as a son. Well, fine then, Harry didn't particularly want a dad who abandoned him for nine years without an explanation. But still, the option of declination would've been appreciated.

"Okay, James," Harry rectified, testing the name on his tongue.

It actually tasted quite sour, come to think of it. He hesitated slightly, and then edged past Lily who was hovering with uncertainty, and practically ran past Uncle Vernon just in case he decided to try something.

After he escaped from the kitchen, he scuttled cautiously towards the cupboard, not wanting his not-quite-parents to know where he was sleeping- in case they didn't already know, keeping where the letter was addressed in mind.

He grappled around for the small knapsack that he used when he had to stay over at Mrs Figg, the residual crazy cat lady (before she'd passed away), when Dudley and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon went on trips.

Harry packed all of his clothes; which consisted of three faded t-shirts, two pairs of jeans and four pairs of odd socks, all of them Dudley cast offs, naturally. He then, after a moment of consideration, packed his small "treasures" which he had accumulated over the years, which were a few books, a tattered analogue wrist watch which he had salvaged from the rubbish bin after watching Dudley throw it away; a worn down photograph of his mum which he had also found in the rubbish bin after his Aunt had him clean out the attic (he briefly considered setting this on fire, in an act of petty rebelliousness, but then decided not to until he heard the explanation as to why his parents allowed him to think them dead, which better be mighty good) and finally his Hogwarts letter, which he decided to stuff in the bottom of his bag.

Harry surveyed the cupboard, knowing, _hoping_, that he wouldn't see it again, at least not for a long time. He looked at the folded bedspread, which had been torn and mended many a time, that hadn't been replaced since he was three years old and must've been, at one point, white, but was now completely a rusty brown color due to all the blood that had been washed off and then reapplied over the years.

Harry then spared a single, though bittersweet in nature, smile for the small spiders that had come to be his only friends over the years, and incidentally perhaps the only thing he would miss about this damn place. Zipping the misshapen duffel shut, he slung the thing over his shoulders as he shut the cupboard door behind him.

He timidly walked back to the kitchen, where Lily and James stood, almost awkwardly, as they were waiting for him. Uncle Vernon was decidedly ignoring the two of them as he ate (read: attacked) his now cold breakfast, and Dudley was whining to no one in particular that he wanted more sweets, with Lily almost imperceptibly sending questioning, borderline disgusted glances towards him, making no move to offer conversation with her nephew.

"Ready, Harry?" she asked, who looked more than happy to leave after the disastrous confrontation with her sister.

Harry gave an apprehensive nod, shifting from foot to foot, as he himself was ready to say farewell to the blasted half-life he'd lived 'till now.

"Well, I'll just let you say your goodbyes then. We'll be waiting in the car."

Lily smiled at him as she nodded towards James, who was striding eagerly out the kitchen faster than a ghost could say boo. Lily gave a slightly apologetic look towards the occupants of the house currently in the kitchen, before gliding out, no less enthusiastically, after her partner.

Uncle Vernon gave a single of his nastiest glares that he usually reserved for when he'd had the worst days at work towards the direction they departed in, and then turned towards Harry, who blanched, and then took to the urge to cower in a corner. After all, those glares were usually the last thing he saw before the world blurred around the edges, and all he knew was _pain, pain, pain._

Vernon grinned wolfishly at Harry, speaking softly, yet with a sense of urgency…

"_Oh_, _Boy_...You think that this'll be your happily ever after, do you now? Think that your new family will whisk you away from the naughty Dursley's, and that you'll tell the rest of those freaks how we treated you, _hmm_? Think that they'll come after us and you'll get your revenge? Well... _THINK AGAIN_!"

Harry jumped at the sudden volume of his voice, as Vernon roared the last two words, and then calmed down slightly as he carried on in that same even tone.

"They don't care about you Boy." He continued condescendingly, his voice slightly pitying, bordering on mocking, as one would address a dog who they knew lack the intellect to grasp the intensity of the situation.

"They don't give a shit, y'know? They prefer your brother over you; one twin over another. Rather sad, isn't it?" He said, in a tone of voice that made it seem as though he thought the opposite.

Harry let out a slight gasp at this, light headed, still frozen in fear; _he had a brother; a twin! A twin brother, a twin brother._

Vernon let out a low chuckle that sent shivers down Harry's spine before continuing: "Yes...Your _brother_. Defeated some poncey _Dark Lord _or another, he did, and they abandoned you, let some old coot throw you at our doorstep without more than a letter of warning... So, like it or not, you owe us, Boy: you _belong_ to us, you always will, and let me tell you, you won't breathe. A. Single. _Fucking_. Word. About anything we may or may not have done to you...I mean, more than likely they won't even give a shit, perhaps they'd even thank us, seeing as you'll likely be no more than a freak even among your lot,"

It obviously took a lot out of his Uncle to refer to them as a whole at all even without speaking the sole term 'wizard.'

"Anyway...just thought I'd give you a little present, a reminder, if you may, before you left."

Vernon let out an evil grin, and Dudley seemed to take a more active interest in what was going on with vindictive pleasure, more than happy to give his father a helping hand.

Harry flinched violently and briefly considered fleeing to the relative safety of James and Lily, before deciding against it, as Vernon's size and eagerness would trump over his own speed and reflexes. The child could only curl in on himself in a poor attempt to brace his body for what was to come.


	7. And Away From The Dursley's We Go

**Chapter Four: And Away From The Dursley's We Go**

"Why's he taking so _lo-o-o-ong,_" bemoaned James Potter towards an equally impatient Lily Potter, though she daren't show it, as she took often it in her stride to present herself as an example to her immature husband.

She sat at the wheel of their Mercades, (which she had gotten after insisting to James that even though neither of them had any desire to consort with Muggles, though they did not outright disdain them, that a method to get around in their world would prove valuable in the upcoming war, no matter how far, to which James only grudgingly agreed to), barely resisting the urge to tap her nails against the leather upholstery. Her husband seemed to hold no such reservations as he bounced up and down in his seat.

Lily sighed. "Well...I suppose it must be rather hard to say goodbye to the people who he's counted as family all his life, and at such short notice too!"

She briefly speculated this- the Dursley's didn't seem to show Harry much regard, from the short amount of time she'd witnessed their dynamics. Then, she instantly dispelled such thoughts, guilty of thinking so little of her sister.

Obviously Lily wouldn't be able to gauge the boy's lifestyle in under twenty minutes of observation, and evidence pointed out that they'd been protective of Harry by not sending him back to a world that didn't want him, and they must've lied to him for the same reasons, mused Lily.

Yes, of course, it was granted that they wouldn't treat Harry like a son, for which she was partially grateful considering how the Dursleys own offspring had turned out. Her thoughts were interrupted by James, who sullenly retorted:

"But, but! They're just _muggles-_!" He whined childishly and Lily turned towards him fully, feeling sparks of her famed temper rise within her. James, seeming to realize he'd said something wrong, cowered.

"_James Charlus Potter_! Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence!" She exclaimed, grinding her teeth in frustration. _Honestly_. Whilst she knew that her husband would never, could never, be a Death Eater, torturing and killing muggles and muggle-born all la-di-dah, it was quite frustrating when he used such ill-thought out statements.

It was borne from years of ingrained pureblood bigotry propaganda passed down from generation to generation, and try as she may over the years to drown it out, it would always lay dormant, second nature, within him.

Although privately, and she would never admit this to anyone other than herself, she agreed with him slightly, to the point of thinking herself better than muggles, despite having once lived within said community and being the Muggle Studies Professor at Hogwarts. _Still_!

Anyone could hear him, and it certainly wouldn't do for any busybody overhearing that the Head Auror and the father of The-Boy-Who-Lived had a Death Eater-esque mindset! She could only shudder, thinking of the damage it would do to Liam's reputation.

Of course, it was of the uttermost importance that no one had even the slightest of reservations with her son so that he would be able to lead them to victory when the time was ripe.

So, with that in mind, she continued to chide her husband, who looked appropriately ashamed of his actions, ignoring the voice in her head that told her that she was acting like a complete and utter hypocrite, telling herself that it was, after all, for The Greater Good.

For a moment longer, neither of them seemed to remember who they were here for as they were suitably lost in their own roles, before James commented,

"So. He wasn't what I thought he'd be. Though, I can't honestly say I thought of him much over the years," he was serious now, as he so often was when assuming his role as Head Auror.

Rare silence for a moment, hesitation, and then a reply of: "Yeah, I see what you mean. I guess I kind of thought he'd be more like Liam, you know, seeing as they're twins 'n all. Then again, I guess you can't expect anyone, regardless of relation, to be quite like Liam," they both shared wide smiles as they reminisced their son, who, in their eyes, was perfect and could do no wrong, seeing as he was destined for Great Things.

After all, they all remembered the horror, devastation and loss of the last Wizarding War, and to think that one single child, _their _child, could end it all? Well, one certainly couldn't blame them if they were slightly overindulgent, for it stood to reason that if Liam Potter was as good as You-Know-Who and his lot were bad, then he certainly deserved all they gave him, all the love and attention, and more.

It just didn't occur to the proud parents that a fruit spoiled was a fruit rotten.

As had become per natural order in the last decade or so, the conversation then took home to Liam's achievements, from his first word to his recent Hogwarts letter to his skill on a broom and his hereditary good looks and strong boned stature (which, when referred to as such later on, would make his brother, Harry, snigger uncontrollably, and when questioned, would only laugh harder, if that were possible), but before it did, their other son was brought up, if only briefly and in a dismissive manner, but discussed all the same.

Lily spoke hesitantly, "Do you...Do you think we did the right thing?"

She already knew the answer, but even so, the confirmation of another would be reassuring, to say the least.

James didn't need to enquire what she was referring to, knowing her well after all their years together spent married, or so he thought, anyway. He looked at his wife softly, lovingly, reaching forward to caress her cheek lightly.

"' 'Course we did, Lills', 'course we did. We did what we had to, what was best for Liam, and it's not as though we left him in an orphanage! He was with those mug-" He paused, and then hastily rectified, "With his Aunt and Uncle, after all, and his cousin! He'd've had plenty of company, plus we didn't know that he'd be a wizard, it would've been outright _cruel _to raise him as the squib brother of the Boy-Who-Lived, you know it would've, I mean just look at your sister. Besides, it was under the direction of Albus Dumbledore, and he's _earned _his right as the Leader of The Light _and_ as the defeater of the last Dark Lord, Grindelwald. If he says that something is right, then is has to be, yeah? If not him, then who else other than ourselves can we trust?" He finished, unknowingly repeating a paraphrase of Lily's exact thoughts that fateful night.

Lily looked him dead in the eyes, the beautiful brown eyes of the man she'd fell in love with and, to this very day, continued to love even _more_, if that was indeed possible. She felt as if all she'd ever felt towards him, every ounce of affection, was poured into the heated gaze that rested between them, as she also emitted through her own jade colored eyes what he meant to her.

She, in that moment more than ever, felt eternally grateful to have found James, _her James, _and even more so that he'd grown up to be this way.

Lily was certain that, with the air so charged between them, they would've kissed if not for the way their seats had separated them. She honestly prefer it that way, for a simple collision of lips felt too..._plebeian_ to display what she felt for her husband and best friend.

So she simply settled for a whispered "Thank you," knowing that James would interpret its meaning. They exchanged soft smiles, and continued the relatively short wait in a comforting sort of silence, each lost in their own private thoughts and worries.

**iii**

Harry whimpered slightly as he limped his way out of the kitchen, feeling blood trickle down his back, thankfully hidden by the darkness of his t-shirt. It wouldn't do for Lily and James to find out so early of his true nature. The boy dared stop for a second as he stood in the hallway to heal himself; no, it certainly just would not do for the couple to find out what he was.

The boy looked around desperately, hoping that Vernon Dursley had made good on his promise and would not try and seek Harry out. He suppressed a sigh of relief when the worst of his injuries, namely the broken and fractured bones, had been healed, knowing that Vernon had warned him of what would happen if he disturbed his Aunt Petunia, who had no desire to see his disgusting face ever again, and the next time he would see her was at his funeral, assuming people thought that he was worth the money, which he very clearly was not.

Honestly, Harry was surprised and even a little touched to see that they cared so much as to think ahead, though he did, for obvious reasons, not voice this aloud. They were probably eagerly anticipating his death, after all.

Clutching his rather meager knapsack tightly with white knuckles, Harry made his way towards the sparkly silver car that was parked in the driveway of the perfectly made lawns of the Dursley residence, courtesy of himself, naturally. He knew that this was obviously the Potters (admittedly, it felt quite bizarre to refer to them as such, even if it was only in the recesses of his mind.

After all, he had spent much of his life referred to as Potter, by the teachers, who called most of the students bar himself by the forenames, and by the Dursley's when they were feeling particularly fair willed, which, mind you, was not often, considering he'd thought that his name was either 'Boy' or 'Freak' or perhaps a mixture of both, before Vernon had, quite literally, beat it into him to answer to "Harry" or "Potter" or "Harry Potter" without giving the reason beforehand as to why. However, Harry was digressing) Potters car, since one did not need above average observation skills (like he'd developed for the simple matter of survival) to know that the automobile was not usually one that was parked at the forefront of the Dursley abode.

With humor, or, that is to say, as much humor as the ten-year old (soon to be eleven) could've possibly mustered in such a shaken and painful state, Harry wondered blithely as to whether the top of the range car, which is what he could garner it indeed was after having read the few books he had on transportation, in addition to overhearing some of Dudley's more intelligent conversations about the different brands of car, constituted as abnormal and therefore embarrassing, or whether it was revered that such a car had appeared at the front of their house, for whatever amount of time and for whatever reason, as it was a clear representation of higher status and wealth, as the Dursley's so often sought to present themselves as.

The boy knew that Aunt Petunia could spin the tale to the neighbors that Vernon had rented the car, but that all the residents within Number Four Privet Drive would come to loathe the car and the world it stood for, at least for them.

Of course, Harry knew that most children of his age would find no comedy within such a contradictory situation, and even fewer would manage to locate said contradictions, but, then again, Harry was no ordinary boy; though for better or worse seemed to remain in question; although after the life he'd led so far, the metaphorical scales appeared to be leaning in the direction of "worse".

The child slipped on the scuffed trainers he wore, and incidentally the only pairs of shoes he owned; perhaps the one thing, save for the cupboard itself, that he owned that hadn't been a cast off of Dudleys. This Harry was grateful for, for his growth was already so unfaliably stunted that he could not afford to have problems with his feet too, problems which he would have surely contracted if he wore such large shoes, that would appear clown-esque on him.

He smiled to himself slightly, and though it was quite tremulous in nature, it was a genuine smile nonetheless, for which he was proud of himself to be capable of so soon after such a painful beating, of the likes he had only felt a handful of times before, yet it seemed to hurt the most now, when things finally started to look up, only to come crashing down on him, quite literally.

Although it was quite a trivial accomplishment, for if he were to interact with his biological family, he knew that he would have to act nothing short of overjoyed.

Harry wasn't stupid, far from it, really, though few people save from himself knew and even less would admit to it.

From reading a mixture of different novels, the boy had grasped onto the knowledge that no one, and especially not a child, should be treated as he had, yet, of course, situations such as his still arose merely due to the fact that humans such as the Dursely's, were simply despicable.

Well, it wasn't as simple as that, Harry knew. If you asked any of their associates they would describe them as quite the opposite, and it seemed that the only person they'd treated with such levels of hostility was Harry himself.

So, it wasn't that the Dursley's themselves were despicable, rather it was their actions solely towards Harry. And, if you thought about it even more, which Harry often found himself doing in the seclusion of his cupboard once he had no more books left to read, you'd realised that most of the hatred they'd had towards Harry was centered on his "Freakishness."

Before today, Harry had been able to tell from the familiarity that Petunia had treated the ability he'd had with, that she'd perhaps had a rather frightening encounter with someone who'd been of the same "type" as him. Petunia had went to Vernon, who'd promised to protect her, and Dudley...well, truth be told, Harry rather pitied Dudley.

He'd been _raised _with the incentive to loathe Harry, and had only been acting with the example of his parents. This, coupled with the pairs abhorrent, lazy approach to parenting wherein they constantly doted on the boy, overfed him and praised him constantly, even where it was in no way deserved, made Dudley the horrific product of society he was today.

Anyway, after Petunias tirade, it'd been clear that Lily had been a witch (after much consideration, Harry had decided that _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ made to refer to females as witches and males as wizards) and that Petunia had loathed her for it, for whatever reason that may be.

So. The sufficient evidence was set and done, and the logic was consistent enough, and it made sense of the whole blasted situation. Yet, it seemed that the human heart really was beyond the reach of logic, for Harry still felt pangs of hatred for all three of the Dursleys.

He didn't want to hurt them, of course not, he felt pained at the thought of revenge, for that would make him as bad as the Dursleys, even worse for he'd be acting simply for the pleasure of it, and not in a twisted sense of righteousness, as they were. Although he knew that if they were in danger, even Uncle Vernon, he'd still save them, as they were still his family, in the most twisted, convoluted way there was, and they'd had raised him (sort of) and taught him the valuable lesson of what not to do in life.

His heart felt convoluted, blackened, disgusting, with the hatred he felt, and he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of it. Alas, the human heart often seems to work in the opposite of the way we want it to, for it flees all attempts at the invasion of the mind and pierces its way to the very core of who we are.

In the same way, Harry could do naught to control the heightened feeling of utter worthlessness he felt; the niggling feeling that every lie his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin had spout of him were nothing more than the truth.

And of course, no amount of logic could battle the aftermath of abuse. Now, Harry had yet to delve _too_ deeply into psychology, namely his own, for he was still, if anyone had forgotten, a ten year old boy. He'd only managed to make sense of the Dursley situation with, as he often did, sheer willpower; which he'd coupled with logic, a basic understanding of human nature which, along with many things he'd been forced to develop simply to survive, his above average intelligence and finally countless hours spent in isolation and self reflection in his dark, damp cupboard. Somewhere along the line, he'd come up with the inklings of a theory, which he'd continuously altered, as he learned and matured more, until today.

No amount of "understanding" could cleanse the boy of the natural distrust he felt towards, well, everyone, especially since not a soul had offered him hide nor hair of kindness in his entire ten years of existence; well, for all he knew anyway, as he obviously couldn't remember his first year of youth.

He also had an ingrained tendency to be secretive and reserved, and to hide himself; and his bodily reactions towards human contact, which had been proven today as he edged away from the simple hand Lily had placed on his shoulder, even though she wasn't Uncle Vernon.

Yet, in essence, he was just a boy who'd been mistreated his entire childhood, and, more than anything he longed for a family, for a sense of belonging, so it was a given that he'd jump at the first chance of it, even if he was somewhat skeptical of "magic school", his long-lost parents, and a brother he didn't know existed. Harry resolved that he'd get the full story out of James and Lily, and it had better be hella good.

It was as if he were fighting war within himself, and the usually blank-faced boy found that, to his absolute horror, that he felt, well, he didn't know exactly what he felt! His emotions churned and spun within him, a wild storm the one minute, and a calming ocean the next.

So, for now, given his inner conflict, Harry was quite content to see where the situation headed; he couldn't afford to loathe his parents for what they had done, quite literally, as his aunt and uncle certainly would not be donating expenses towards his cause, and he certainly wanted to attend Hogwarts. If he could forge a relationship with his estranged family in the process, then great, though he certainly was not getting his hopes up (or so he'd thought.)

Shaking his head in disbelief of how a single, odd letter had changed his life so dramatically within less than an hour, Harry turned toward Number Four, Privet Drive for what he hoped to be the last time. The sun shone brightly in the morning light, over the perfectly made flowerbeds (which, if he said so himself, he was rather proud of),evenly cut grass and the modest house which screamed of "normal" and said nothing off the rather horrific events that so often took place within its walls.

Surprisingly, Harry felt rather apathetic towards the property itself; he would certainly not miss it nor what it stood for. The only thing Harry felt anything resembling attachment to was the flowers he'd spent so long nurturing, the spiders, and perhaps even his cupboard, to a certain extent.

The boy felt as though this moment were symbolic, a not quite farewell to this portion of his life. With that rather joyful deduction, Harry shuffled towards the silver Mercades, knocking lightly on the door.


	8. A Rather Enlightening Car Journey

**Chapter Five: A Rather Enlightening Car Journey**

James rolled his window down, as Lily gave him something that remotely resembled a smile and notioned towards Harry to come boy gingerly grasped at the handle of the car as he opened it and let himself in, settling comfortably on the squishy leather seats, for all his attempts to compose himself in an orderly manner. At least his back would not be subjected to any further discomfort.

Harry found himself sinking in on the seat ever so slightly, secretly delighted. He'd never sat in the seat of a car before; Uncle Vernon made him walk to school, muttering something about delinquents in way of explanation, and, in rare situations where he was forced to travel by car, he was eloquently crammed into the boot. Harry was morbidly curious as to whether his Uncle simply didn't want to be stuck with him in such close quarters, or if Dudley spanned the whole of the two back seats.

As Lily pressed the keys in and started the car, Harry rather nervously asked, in an attempt to get some answers: "So, what can you tell me about Hogwarts? I mean, I didn't really know I was a wizard 'till yesterday when I got my letter. Well, um, actually I didn't even know you were alive 'till I saw you guys today, and U-Uncle Vernon," Harry subconsciously shivered as he said his name, a fact which went unnoticed by the Potters; Lily because she was focused on driving and James because he was just obtrusive, "Said something about a, er, ...brother?" Harry trailed off, knowing that he'd asked way too many questions at once and half expecting to be reprimanded in the form of a fist or a frying pan to the head.

James gave his custom jovial expression, something Harry was coming to associate him with; his constantly cheerful demeanor beginning to creep Harry out.

The man launched into a fevered, enthusiastic explanation. "All great questions, kid, though you might wanna slow down a bit. Let me start off with Hogwarts. Hogwarts is a school of magic, for wizards, which is what you are. Your Aunt and Uncle didn't tell you because they didn't know you'd be one; neither did we for that matter. No one expected it, not us or Dumbledore. Great man, by the way, Albus Dumbledore is, great man, he's the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Anyway, Hogwarts is this great big castle, best years of m' life there. You'll learn all sorts; Transfiguration, Charms," James scrunched his nose in clear disgust, "Potions."

Most of these words were foreign to Harry, at least in the context of magic- he assumed that they were different branches of magic. He decided that he would read up on everything there was to know about the different aspects of magic as soon as he could, assuming there were books on the subjects, which he supposed there were, since it wouldn't really make sense for a subject to be taught without textbooks; then again, he knew that there was very little he could be certain about in this new world. He also resolved to educate himself on this Potions (which sounded a little self explanatory, but then again, he couldn't be sure), seeing as it was an obvious weakness of James Potter.

James, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, carried on, and Harry listened closely, unwilling to interrupt him, and to miss anything from the impromptu lecture, " It's divided into four Houses: Gryffindor is the House of courage, and for super brave people. It's where me and Lily and all the Potters before us where sorted. The best, most prominent figures, are Gryffindors. Then there's the other Houses," privately, Harry thought that this dismissal of the "other Houses" was rather conceited, "Ravenclaw, which is for the bookworms, Slytherin," Harry duly noted the contempt that the name was spat out with. _Interesting_. "Which is supposedly the 'House of Cunning' " He punctuated the words "House of Cunning" with quotation marks made with his fingers, "But really it's where all the evil witches and wizards go."

Lily, who had stopped at a red light, took that moment to glare at James. "_James_!" She hissed, not for the first time that day, "You know that's not true!"

James raised an eyebrow at her, "Really?" he questioned, "What about Snivellus, huh, you-"

Lily interrupted him, as she spoke with a frustration that showed that she had had this exact conversation many a time before, "You _know_ he apologised! Besides, that was ages ago, we're colleagues now, _older_, and you're no longer silly schoolyard rivals, so don't be ridiculous."

The red light turned amber, then green, which caused Lily to continue driving.

James coughed lightly, pointedly choosing not to reply to his wife. Harry didn't know what to make of it, only that his father was prejudice towards the House of Slytherin, and that he had some sort of agenda against this "Snivellus" (which Harry chose to assume was a nickname, since he couldn't believe that someone would have such an unfortunate name) character, and that said man worked alongside Lily.

The man carried on explaining to Harry, as though he hadn't been interrupted in the first place. "Yes, well, Harry, Slytherin is where You-Know-Who came from," catching sight of Harry's confused expression, he amended, "Well, I suppose you _don't_ know who...I'll explain that to you later. Oh, and there's Hufflepuff, I guess. People say it's where the hardworking and loyal go, but really it's for people who don't fit into the other Houses."

Lily lifted a hand from the steering wheel to swat at her husband's shoulder rather half heartedly, choosing not to verbally state her disagreement.

"What? You know it's true, Lils', the hat said so itself!" Lily sniffed at the comment, not replying, which caused James to grin harder, if that were possible.

"So, anyway, Harry, that's pretty much the run of Hogwarts, you'll learn the rest later. As to why we didn't contact you all these years, well, that goes hand in hand with your brother, Liam," curiously to Harry, James's eyes lit up behind his glasses at the mention of Liam, and something in Lilys shoulders seemed to relax. Then, James smile dropped as he grimly began to explain:

"So basically there was this Dark Lord," Harry vaguely remembered his conversation with Vernon before his "goodbye present" (recalling his Uncle made his bones sting in phantom pain...and the bruises sting in actual pain, for it had taken a great deal of energy to heal the breaks- if Harry had healed the bruises and cuts, too, he'd've passed out which, granted, wouldn't make much of a positive impression), which was quite fuzzy, where he had mentioned a Dark Lord bloke,

"Mind you, only Death Eaters, which is the name given to were his followers, call him that. Most people call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or You-Know-Who, because of a taboo that was placed on his name during the war."

Harry sat up straighter in his seat; James obviously was not talking about World War Two.

"Anway, You-Know-Who was dead set on making sure that all the muggleborn, which refers to wizards who have non-magical parents, and muggles, which are just non magical people, were killed. He thought that wizards should rule over everyone, and that muggleborns weren't proper wizards and that they were inferior to purebloods, which're wizards who have at the very least, grandparents who were magical. He only just tolerated half-bloods, which, like the title suggests, are wizards who had either muggleborn parents, or who were the child of a muggle and a wizard. Anyway, the problem was that You-Know-Who was an extremely powerful wizard, and he had lots of Death Eaters at hand. He gave no regard for the Statue of Secrecy, which is something the wizard government uses to make sure muggles don't find out about us-"

Harry didn't need to ask why, as the Dursleys screaming "Freak!" and beating him harshly after his unintentional displays of magic, when he was younger, and had less control, came to mind,

"-And was all for torturing and killing the muggles and muggleborns, and even purebloods and halfbloods who didn't follow him, or agree with his ideologies."

James shivered, his gaze distant. "It was a horrible time. You didn't know who you could trust, and even those who you _could_ trust could be under the Imperius."

"What's that?" Harry asked, the first time he had spoken in a while.

James looked slightly surprised, but not really all that annoyed, "The imperius curse is used to control whoever's under it. There are only a small percentage of wizards who are naturally resistant to it. So, y'see it was a real dark time. Me 'nd Lily, along with a few other trusted wizards and witches, worked in a, um," James bit his lip, brows slightly furrowed, as he carried on, "a secret organisation, led by Dumbledore, who was probably the only wizard You-Know-Who ever _really_ feared. And that's where your twin brother, Liam, comes in. Dumbledore had gotten information that You-Know-Who was targeting us because…"

Lily, who was listening in on the conversation, shook her head slightly, deciding that James shouldn't mention the prophecy so openly, especially to a ten-year old. After all, the fewer people who knew, the better, and they hadn't even informed _Liam_ that the prophecy existed, and he was a part of it!

"He wanted revenge on us."

Harry noticed that James was withholding information but chose not to comment; after all, he was used to such treatment and knew that it wasn't so simple. Still, the child couldn't help but feel slightly spiteful that James did not trust him.

The older man carried on, feeling assured by his wife that he had done the right thing, "So, you, me, Lily and Liam hid in a safe house in Godric's Hollow...We certain it was safe, but, like I said, you didn't know who you could trust, and we were betrayed by someone who we thought was a friend."

James seemed to become angry at the mention of this "friend," and had to pause for a second before he carried on, more calmly this time; Harry listened with bated breath as he finally got answers as to why he'd been tossed aside like scrap rubbish "We weren't there. We'd left you and Liam alone with the traitor, when You-Know-Who came to personally kill the pair of you. He took out his wand,"

Huh. James had somehow failed to mention beforehand that wizards used wands as a medium for magic. That answered fewer questions than it raised.

"And used it to cast a Killing Curse at your brother, which, the thing is, no one has ever survived before. Ever. So, your brother was left alive, and somehow it was flung back at You-Know-Who, and he was, well, no-one really knows what actually happened to him, though most people think he died," James's skeptical tone told Harry that he was not included in 'most people.' "But, whatever happened to him, he was gone. Liam was left with a scar on his forehead as a result,"

Harry flattened his fringe self consciously over his own lightning bolt scar, a gesture which went unnoticed by James. He wondered where he'd got it from; perhaps he really had been in a car-crash. Regardless, even if he didn't have to fight an evil wizard to get it, Harry quite liked his scar; in fact, other than his eyes, it was the only thing he truly savoured about his appearance, even though his Aunt often told him how awful it looked, which led to him actively covering it save for when he was in private.

But Harry found himself doubting his previous theories, a repressed memory fighting it's way forward. How peculiar. He furrowed his brow, feeling the beginning of a migraine.

"It looks a bit like a crescent moon; it's the same as the wand movements for the curse. After You-Know-Who disappeared, the whole house crumbled down, and Liam only just managed to shield the both of you."

Well, that was all well and nice, but it didn't tell Harry much about why they'd decided to abandon him. Truth be told, he was rather...iffy about the whole thing. It sounded more like a fairy tale than anything, but then again, it was magic after all, so perhaps this sort of scenario occurred often? Yet, even in a world of wizards and witches and Dark Lords and magical castles, the story of a baby who could not even walk yet defeating a war tyrant seemed rather far-fetched. Perhaps Harry was just jealous of how James talked about Liam, sounding so proud of him.

His oncoming headache did not make Harry less introspective; rather, it only seemed to egg his suspicions on, teasing him with _something_, something that would make the picture click into place, whispered his instincts.

But _what_? What could _he_ remember (or rather forget) about something so important, something that had shaped the past decade?

James mistook his lack of comment for awe rather than doubt. He chuckled as his voice took on a rather wistful tone. "Amazing, isn't it?" He marveled.

Harry hesitated, not wanting to sound rude, but _needing_ answers.

"Yes, of course...But...W-Why did you leave me?"

He sounded whiny, and he hated how uncertain his voice was, feeling awfully exposed. He clasped his hands tightly from where he sat stiffly in his seat, in an attempt to stop them shaking. He felt rather pathetic; the little pride he had, was placed in his ability to conceal his emotions, for his age, at least; he wasn't that presumptuous- he was tearing apart at the seams just because of two practical strangers! Sure, there was more to it than that, yet that was what it was in essence.

James Potter paused, frowning inwardly. Just how did one go about telling a child that they simply were not wanted?

Thankfully, before Harry could comment on the rather self explanatory silence, Lily decided to answer the question, slowing down the car slightly so she could concentrate fully on her answer.

She sighed heavily.

"Harry," she began softly, almost pleadingly. "It...It wasn't as easy as that. It- We, _well_, Albus, examined the both of you after the attack. You'd shown very, _very_ low levels of magic. We thought you'd end up a squib," when she didn't elaborate further on the term, Harry drew his own conclusion.

"And with your brother being raised as The-Boy-Who-Lived," this, she did expand on,

"Which is what they'd started calling him...Well, we were just doing what we thought best. Can you imagine? Being raised as the non-magical twin to such a prominent figure? Being surrounded by wizards and being unable to perform even the simplest of spells? Honestly, no-one was more surprised than the two of us when you got your letter, and I have to say I truly am sorry that you thought we were dead. But you have us now, we have each other, and that's the most important part, right?" She sounded desperate, sincere.

Yet, if Harry had looked up from where his gaze was fixedly lowered, he would see her features reflected in the car mirror, completely uncaring.

For, truthfully, Lily Potter had no such desire to "repair the bond" with their other son, as Albus had suggested with those _oh-so-kind_ twinkling eyes. Liam, with his fame and power and natural charms, talent and good looks, was all she could ever want in a child.

Of course, she had to put up pretences, for it would do no good if someone found out that she had abandoned a child, especially the twin brother of the Boy-Who-Lived. She could do this much, at least: act as if she cared, give him food, money, and a roof over his head, to prevent too many questions being asked. Undoubtedly, her husband was thinking along a similar, if not the same, vein.

Harry still felt as if there was something..._off _about the whole situation, and he certainly felt less than certain about this "Albus Dumbledore" person, for all he seemed to be revered, it would be quite a careless mistake to make.

Though, this did make Harry curious: was he a weak wizard? If so, he shuddered to think how powerful He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been, which reminded Harry to see if he could find out his actual name.

Despite how much Harry doubted nearly everything concerning the situation, he was still, at the end of the day, a lonely, abused ten-year-old boy who was desperately craving acceptance. He, despite his reservations, wanted it to be the truth.

So he gave a soft "Um, yeah," back, because he would be damned if he were the one to mess this up; the one chance that Harry had to have a real family and to study magic, of all things! Because deep down, even if he knew that there was more to it, he just wanted to pretend, for God's sake, he deserved that much.

The rest of the journey was served in relative silence, not the comfortable kind, but the sort that was charged with high strung emotions and unspoken words, promises and threats that Harry tried to make sense of but couldn't for the life of him.

He tried, tried to think of anything to fill the gaping hole that threatened to consume him, but it was for naught, as Harry had already asked his questions, and he'd gotten his answers; answers which he wasn't quite whether he'd wanted.

He wasn't too sure how he felt about the whole thing, but, hey; he had the whole car journey to brood, because as much as Harry wanted to speak to his parents, he had nothing to say. And, of course, Harry wasn't exactly what you'd call well versed in the art of light conversation, and so the boy found himself in an odd sort of limbo, too anxious to delve into a conversation of significance, but _craving_ it all the same.

At only one point during the four hour car ride was the silence broken, and Harry felt awkward as hell, but he needed to know.

"What colour is the Killing Curse?"

He barely stuttered, having spent the better part of an hour working up the courage, for he wasn't used to asking questions so freely with adults. At least they were driving, and so it would be relatively difficult for them to harm him, and dear God, he needed to stop thinking like this, not everyone was the flippin' Dursleys, but then again old habits die hard and he hadn't even been parted from them for a day, so he decided he would humor himself for just a little while longer.

It was James who answered.

"Green, the incantation is _Avada Kedavra_, in case you wondering. Just don't try to cast it."

He laughed at his own joke, though it was a rather forced, strangled sound, on par with the joke itself.

Lily said: "Why do you ask?" and though she tried to sound warm, it still came off as calculative.

Harry shrugged, knowing they'd be able to see him through the mirrors. "No reason." he replied, making sure that he didn't reply too quickly and trying to sound nonchalant, his face the picture of innocence. It seemed to work for the most part, James looking less suspicious of him when he commented, "If you say so."

Harry's heart was beating rapidly in his chest as he tried to look inconspicuous as he tried to let everything sink in...honestly, it wasn't even twelve PM and he'd already had several life changing realisations. It didn't even occur to him to be offended at the Potters hostility, such was the gravity of the epiphany.

_A high pitched laugh...Green light...Avada Kedavra...A blinding pain in his forehead..hurthurthurt, Oh God, It HURT!...Collapsing rubble…Nothing, blackness…._

The conversation had seemed to awaken something inside him, something that had been, before this, deeply buried within the throes of his mind.

_How could he have forgotten?_

The same inexplicable nightmare over and over again on the rare occasions that his nights were not haunted by ghostly images of Vernon Dursley...Only they weren't nightmares; they-they were _memories_.

Because as far-fetched, as ridiculous as it may seem, by some cruel twist of Fate_, Harry James Potter _was the Boy-Who-Lived.

And like hell he'd ever let anyone find out.


	9. Not Even A Simple Hello

**Chapter Six: Not Even A Simple Hello**

At around two PM they arrived at Potter Manor.

James was complaining to Lily, saying: "Muggle transportation is so slow! Why couldn't we just Floo here, it would be _so_ much faster! I'm bloody starving,"

Lily swatted at James, which seemed to be something she did quite often. She made it seem like an Olympic sport, in Harry's opinion.

"You know why James, we weren't just going to _apparate_ right into Privet Drive of all places! Now stop moaning, Liam'll be home soon from the Weasleys."

If Harry was listening at the moment, which, despite how it looked, he actually was, since he had commendable multitasking skills accumulated from years of existing near Vernon and Dudley Dursley, who needed to combine their one existing brain-cell to perform a single menial task, he would note down the terms '_Floo'_ and '_Apparate'_, so he could research the means of transportation at a later date, and then he would take the time to ponder why his brother had pet weasels.

As it were, a large part of Harry, his most conscious sense of self, was quite busy looking ridiculous. At some point he had gotten out of the car (and years later he would wonder whether it was magic, or if he was just distracted) and now he stood gaping at the spectacle that was Potter Manor.

It was a magnificent building of the finest white marble, surrounded by acres of the most lushest green grass that would leave Aunt Petunia drooling (not a sight he liked to imagine) in proxy to what he would later find out was a Quidditch Pitch.

The manor itself was around five stories large, with towering windows that seemed to change color in the sunlight, hues of fierce reds, pale yellows and deep blues. The building was fiercely guarded by marble lions, depicted frighteningly detailed, who would roar soundlessly yet no less ferociously at anyone who graced the property that wasn't of Potter bloodline, or who the current Head of House felt enmity towards.

Harry couldn't help but feel a sort of kinship towards the manor, which he would later be informed was customary for any member, marriage-wise or hereditary, of the Potter kin to feel.

James, realising that Harry stood frozen in shock, laughed at him openly, yet with no visible hostility; more likely, he could understand what he was going through- as he was a direct child of James's, he would feel the wards of the place almost as strongly as the man himself did, and, even so, James had grown up here as a child, so he had slowly gotten used to the feeling, whereas Harry would be experiencing it all at once.

Decidedly, James didn't inform the child that it was old blood magic tainted with a specific sort of compulsion that Harry felt; he didn't really feel the need to.

He walked up to Harry, who didn't seem to notice him in his wonderment. Remembering how he'd reacted when Lily had touched him earlier, which, dear God, seemed like a lifetime ago when it was only just this morning; James opted to stand next to him, whilst Lily made her way indoors to welcome Liam back and prepare them for their new occupant.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He commented idly.

Harry, to his favor, didn't flinch; rather, he turned towards James quite calmly.

"I guess so," He attempted to reply as nondescript as possible, though it was futile for it was obvious in his blatant display of staring that he agreed with James wholeheartedly. He mentally berated himself; he couldn't afford to be so expressive, and this was a slip up that he would not be making again.

At the Dursleys, if he showed the slightest of intrigue towards anything, really, it would quickly become a game of cat and mouse, with them being the ones tugging at all the strings.

Sure, it was all fine and dandy for him to have this newfound familial origin, but he needn't show any weakness unnecessarily, and give them anything to pounce upon. New territory, same rules.

And some cynical part of Harry told him that had he not received that letter, then he would probably be rotting at the Dursleys, mourning parents who didn't give a shit about him, living a sad, miserable life, until Vernon would, one day, go to far, have one drink too many, go one blow too heavy...And, upsettingly to the boy, Harry would've been glad, in that situation, to have been given the release that death offered to him on a golden platter.

The child knew that if he were to tell his parents the truth about him, about how he had, in actuality, been the baby that had defeated You-Know-Who (Harry was freshly reminded to find out this wizards name) then they would love him like a son, which was all sorts of messed up.

But, more than likely, they wouldn't believe him over a boy who was theirs in all regards, and they wouldn't want to either, and so they wouldn't, as such was human nature, as Harry had time and time again seen when Petunia Dursley fawned over her son and husband. Berating himself slightly, Harry resolved not to think of the Dur-..._them _so often, unless it would aide him somehow.

They were in the past, gone, and even if this back-from-the-undead family situation worked out for the worst, Harry held no illusions he would be welcomed back at his former residence with wide smiles and open arms, unless the arms were being used to strangle him, and the smiles were badly disguised snarls of disgust.

Yet he would soon forget that little promise almost instantly, as he would figure out of his own accord that there were countless similarities between _here_ (a term which pertained to the wizarding world in general) and Privet Drive; the same sort of social standing and pecking order.

Anyway, back to the situation at hand; Harry knew that even if the family was inclined to believe him, he had no concrete evidence that illustrated his point, and if there was a sort of magical procedure to finding it out, then they certainly would have used it beforehand.

Plus, Harry didn't want to embarrass his brother; after all, from what Harry could tell from his parents reactions, he _had_ been treated as a somewhat celebrity over the years, though to what caliber he couldn't say Harry knew. Though that same shrew part of Harry's thoughts that the boy tried desperately to bury told him that _he_ had been told that he was a _wizard_ with a _family_ without so much of a moment's notice in advance, for the letter didn't really count.

_It's an entirely different situation_, he chastised himself sharply, _don't connect unrelated dots_.

Besides, Harry didn't want the inevitable attention that being the famous Boy-Who-Lived, especially after such a scandalous reveal, would doubtlessly elicit. No, he was the sort of person that hated attention of any sorts, as bringing attention to himself, regardless of good or bad, would also end terribly.

He much preferred to strike from the shadows, to skulk in corners and lunge when the odds were most profitable towards him. After all, Harry had not survived the Dursleys (God, he was a _survivor_, wasn't he? He was _free, _more so than he had been in a long time, if ever) by acting out with impulsiveness, or calling attention to himself and his abusive household, his strange abilities.

For there _was_ no good or bad attention, only bringing more sets of eyes upon himself and being subjected to negativity. Even now, with James walking next to him, Harry couldn't deny that he felt quite queasy.

Even if Harry was the sort of person he ought to be, despite the circumstances; a normal, immature ten-year old boy who would enjoy being revered for a fluke that occurred when he was still in nappies,and from little effort required on his part, at that, it didn't change the fact that Harry knew that if he was to be recognised, then people would pry endlessly into his privacy and his scarred past, and that was exactly the sort of knowledge that he didn't want to be public.

"Come on in then," replied a still amused James, who was unaware of his sons deep musings.

Harry grunted slightly, letting out an "Mmm" as he walked behind James, still staring at the interior of the house.

The boy made sure not to allow any excess stones from the rocky path that cut through the fields, onto the grass. After spending hours upon hours tending to the garden back before he knew he was a wizard, he could certainly appreciate a good garden, and the effort that arose with keeping it that way. Though, he thought sourly, they might've gotten done effortlessly and quickly with the aid of magic, which Harry couldn't use back then underneath the watchful, hawk-like eyes of Aunt Petunia.

Finally, after around five minutes of walking (seriously, just what was the purpose of having such a big garden; it was so pretentious-seeming that Harry was reminded, ungently, of the Dursleys. This disturbed him, for if the Dursleys strove to be the self proposed epitome of the concept of "normality", then the Potters, mismatched, ignorant to muggle culture as they were, had to be the complete opposite, and so the fact that they drew such parallels was somewhat unsettling), the pair had reached the gates of Potter Manor, Lily having already gone forward before them. They stood in front of large, brown doors that were covered in large, intricate designs, which Harry would later discover were an ancient brand of runes, whose existence had been lost to time itself.

Upon their arrival, the door swung open a second later, having recognised the two of them.

Harry very nearly let out a vocal gasp at the grand halls of the building. He would've taken more time to drink in the place, but he was distracted; there were the portraits that hung upon the high walls, large, musty portraits of old men in odd clothing, which would've been creepy but remained uncommented on, if they were only so nondescript.

For Harry found that the portraits moved and talked, and yes that was paint, there wasn't a television hidden in the frame; there was no telling shine from the gleam of plastic or glass.

Harry supposed he shouldn't be so surprised, that he should come to expect the impossible...after all, he was here with his dead parents, about to meet his non existent twin brother and, come fall, he was going to attend a wizarding school.

Yet, the sight of the openly gaping, gossiping portraits, that clearly interacted between themselves and could see Harry and James, reminded the young boy that he had much, so much to learn about this new world, and, again, the child found himself craving books on everything in this whole damn place, because if knowledge indeed was power, as he had established years ago, then Harry was, at the momment, pretty fucking vunerable, and he _hated_ it.

James shouted at the portraits "Silence!" and, surprisingly enough, for a group that seemed to, at first glance, highly rever acting untamed, they complied.

Harry marveled, wondering whether the portraits were free spirits, or if they had been somehow spelled to listen to his father. In that case, he himself feeling rather sorry for them, until a particularly old, old man who had grey eyes and whitening black hair snickered quietly; then Harry found that he was quite happy to ignore their suffering, and then promptly felt guilty, and a little sick, finding that wishing bad for someone solely because they laughed at him was a rather Dudley-esque notion.

Harry also, on a completely unrelated note, wanted to know exactly _how_ the people had gotten trapped in there, and if they were even people, or if they were just pictures of people that had been spelled to speak, or something completely different.

Never assume that you know the answers, always look at all your options and stay on your guard; don't come forth with your opinion, because it can go to hell if you're wrong, you can't _afford_ to be wrong.

James must have seen Harry looking at the portraits in silent wonderment. He laughed. "Oh, yes, I suppose muggles wouldn't have portraits." He looked as though he was considering something, and then he laughed again, barking a single note as he looked equal parts baffled and amused. "Dear Merlin! I'll bet that they don't even have moving photographs, what with those camerahaes of theirs. I don't understand how they live with it, people just sitting there and staring at them all the time, how creepy!"

He didn't seem to notice Harry staring at him during his tirade, or perhaps he did, and he was basking in the attention. James was still an unknown to Harry, though the man seemed to be rather transparent, the boy didn't want to make the mistake of assuming anything. The child also noted with interest that wizarding photographs moved. He would be more excited if he owned anything of value, or anyone, that he wished to immortalise, so for now Harry stored the information away as he had done so many times today.

James, and Harry by extension, was interrupted by the descending of two figures from the spiraling mahogany staircases. There was a loud shout, and as the shorter figure came closer, Harry found himself faced with what seemed to be a warped reflection of himself, the same as him but somehow different. Harry was reminded oddly of a funhouse mirror.

The boy, Liam, Harry supposed, had chestnut brown hair, nearly identical to James's except that it was tinged slightly more reddish. It was messy in a way that inferred not to natural unkemptness, but instead the hours in front of a mirror that one would spend trying to give it the illusion of seeming to be so.

Harry off-handedly recalled when Dudley had been obsessed with a footballer, and had spent a fair amount of time, and surprising patience, trying to fashion his hair to resemblance his idol, before abandoning it and resorting to slicking his blonde hair backwards with thick wads of gell.

The resemblance to Dudley ended there, though barely. Liam Remus Potter stood tall, more so than his twin, yet he was not what one would describe as lanky. He wasn't exactly fat, per say, but he was rather...pudgy, all things considered, and his round face spoke of years of being quite well fed.

Harry was surprised that he didn't have to fight down raging bitterness- he had become quite fond of his stature over the years, because of how often it had assisted him when he had been able to fit into particularly small spaces, or duck underneath the thick, wobbly arms of his overweight cousin. In the same way, Harry found that he had become particularly adverse to ever being labeled "fat" in any way, though, granted, he wasn't in a position to decline any food given to him. Plus, he could hardly blame his twin for taking what was given to him, in the same sort of way that Harry could not fault Dudley to an extent, for who he became was conditioned by how his Aunt and Uncle had taught him to view the world, and how he was only following after their ideals.

Rather thankfully, Harry found that he wouldn't have to share one of the few other things that he liked about himself, for he already found that he shared this feature with Lily, which was granted, he supposed, that he had a parent with green eyes if he were to have them. He remembered, sadly and with no little dark humor, of how he had oftentimes devoured pages upon pages of books that describe genetics and inheritance as he imagined his mother with his hair, or his father with his nose...

Pertaining to the youth in front of him; Liam's eyes were a dark, muddish brown, not spectacled like his brothers and fathers, and they were squinting at him, looking him up and down, from head to toe, eyeing his overly large Dudley cast-offs with barely concealed disgust. Harry forced himself into not judging what he saw in those eyes; after all ,his clothes were nothing if not unflattering, and disliking ugly clothes was hardly anything wrong, for Harry himself was not very fond of the rags he wore.

Liam Potter looked his "brother" up and down, thinking. All in all, he was quite confused, if not a little angry. Sure, he had known all about his twin brother, and that he was a squib (this was, at least, what he had been told) and that he was being raised with muggles. Obviously, Liam didn't, on principle, despise muggleborns as his mother was one, and she was a great witch, but she'd been in the wizarding school since she was a little girl, and so to some lesser extent, muggles.

But he couldn't help but think of them as rather odd, especially when he was subjected to another of Arthur Weasleys rants about muggle devices, of which made them seem like some kind of weird, cute pets, like lesser beings, and Liam had not met any muggles himself, except for passing glances from the windows The Leaky Cauldron, and odd sightings here and there. So, he was of the opinion that muggles were a rather slow type, and if his brother was raised by them…

Liam still found himself annoyed that he had not been informed of his brother arriving until the last minute. Just after he had Flooed back from the Weasleys, his mum had informed him hastily and apologetically that his brother, was, in fact, a wizard, and he had come to stay with them. Truth be told, he rather anticipated his brother coming to stay with them, in the few seconds he had to do so.n They were twins, after all, _twins_! He would be able to pull all sorts of pranks with him, just as Fred and George Weasley did with each other. And they would be, as his mother had informed him, attending Hogwarts together. Wicked!

Now, though, with Harry (Liam knew that that was his name, for he ensured that his mother would not fail to tell him, despite the rush) standing in front of him, Liam reconsidered.

Harry did not seem the pranking type, Liam mused as he looked him up and down. The pair did not exchange any words, and were silently surveying each other as the two adults carried out a whispered conversation among themselves.

In fact, he seemed a bit creepy, just standing there, staring at him, emotionless (or, it seemed as such to Liam, for he had, for all his life, only been surrounded by Gryffindoors, and, as such, had never been introduced to the covert world of subtle gestures, silent conversations, and masked feelings) with those really bright green eyes.

Liam was quite disappointed that they were not identical, for he was looking forward to seeing a replica of himself. Also, this greatly limited the amount of pranks they could play, though Liam had already half resigned himself to not play any pranks with Harry the moment he'd set eyes on him.

The boy was not anything that Liam would call a Potter; his eyes were creepy (mums were pretty, for sure, but Harrys, his clothes were scruffy and his glasses were cracked. Obviously, Liam did not feel scorn for his brothers apparent poorness- after all, he was friends with Ronald Weasely. But to see him there, wearing such ragged muggle clothing, someone who had the same nose, same jaw as Liam, who shared his blood, a Potter… well, it felt slightly disconcerting.

It was Harry who broke the silence first, to Liams' silent chagrin. "Hullo." he said softly, and Liam wanted to laugh, and he actually did snigger. Honestly, Harry was such a Hufflepuff! Liam was not well versed with the concept of humility

But, then again, he thought, not everyone was the Boy-Who-Lived, and thus, not everyone could be expected to have the same amount of self confidence as him. Well, that's what his mum and dad called it, "self-confidence," so that's what Liam took to describing it as, even as the twins (Fred and George Weasley) insisted that it was "pure gittiness."

Liam just... knew what his place in the world was. A hero. He was important, the boy who had saved them all. Liam had not been informed of the true devastation of the war, for they felt it would tarnish his innocence, and the boy certainly didn't want a history lesson. No, he was only told that there had been a massive, terrible fight (to Liams ten-year-old brain, a fight was a spat between mates, sloppy blows, and then making up between large sips of hot cocoa. He couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of a fight on a larger scale than that!) and that he was the answer, their light in the face of death, the one who ended it all. So, Liam knew who he was, his sole purpose in life, and he was proud of himself, to have defeated the "villain." If he could counter such a powerful darkness, then just what did it say about him? It only made sense.

Of course, if Harry had presented himself in the same way Liam did himself, he would have called him a pompous git, because even though he may have been Liams' twin, he was not the Boy-Who-Lived himself, and therefore had not earned the privilege of carrying himself like that. Liam was too obtuse of a boy to notice the hypocrisy.

At the moment, Liam could not fight the urge, and, nor did he try to, to exclaim amid his unfiltered laughs: "You're such a Hufflepuff!"- these were the first words that Harry would hear from his twin, discounting innocent garbles from their joint childhood. Liam just couldn't help it, it was pathetic that he was so- so _shy_! Granted, anyone who met the legend that was the Boy-Who-Lived in the flesh would be more than a bit skittish, but Liam expected more from his own _brother_, for crying out loud. It was unbecoming of someone who was a Potter through and through who bore the blood of so many different Light Gryffindor pupils flowing through his veins.

Again, Liam didn't think of how Harry was learning of magic for the first time (it was a piece of information sandwiched somewhere amongst the hasteful conversation with his mother before Harry arrived), nor did he stop to consider that said brother was meeting his dead family for the first time. It wasn't something that the average, well-off (which was a rather generous way to describe Liams'... _circumstances_) little boy would consider, and Liam was so deeply drowned into believing, living, and breathing his own legend that he did not stop to think that he may be wrong, that there was more that met the eye, and that he _wasn't_ the centre of, well, everything. Because, quite sadly, it was all he'd ever known.

Of course, Liam would only treat Harry, would only think of him, as he did with other kids like Ron Weasely or Neville Longbottom. For Liam was not to know of the _pain_ Harry had suffered.

Presently, James chuckled slightly at Liams "smart comeback", Lily allowed the faintest trait of a smile to play on her lips and Harry- well, Harry was trying his best not to scream. He suddenly felt sick, sick, sick, a heavy knot gnawing at the bottom of his stomach, tightening its hold in a well of emotions, and _God_, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't.

None of this was, suffice to say, visible, as Harry had sooner rather than later trained himself out of large displays of emotion, something that had been necessary for his continued survival.

He wanted to cry, to punch something, preferably himself. It's just- well, he'd thought, hoped (_stupid! stupid! stupid!_) that this would be different. _That_\- that they would love him. Yet, here were the signs, right in front of him, clear as day, deep cutting as night. If he squinted, he could see them: Vernon Dursley and Petunia, doting on their spoilt son who could do no wrong, dismissing obvious insults as ingeniously unique terms of endearment, or as a rather funny joke.

And it was worse, _worse_, because these were supposed to be his parents too! And would've been if Albus Dumbledore had been able to tell right from left. Instantly a bit of Harry's anger left, to be replaced with guilt and shame, because he wouldn't wish on anyone, _anyone_, the fate that awaited for him at the Dursleys, a past that would haunt him forever.

Outwardly, Harry raised a single eyebrow, looking at Liam with askance. No one bar himself would be left the wiser to the storm of emotions and conflicting thoughts that raged within him at the moment.

"How?" he asked, his voice that of childish curiosity.

Inwardly, he was just so hopelessly confounded by everything. So frustrated. He wanted (so much, so _so_ much) to believe that his parents would love him like a second son, which was ironic on so many different levels.

And, _well_.

Harry was more than aware that he was only ten years old. And, like most at his age, he craved love and affection, yearned for it, even. Especially since he'd experienced so little of it in his small, yet pain filled, lifetime.

Oh, he'd given up on the Dursleys not too long ago, after painstaking years of trying anything, everything, to make them love him.

So, even though there was some part of Harry that wanted to protect himself and nothing else, that wanted to make sure that he wouldn't be torn apart so mercilessly as he had been before, this time round; there was an even larger portion of himself that whispered at him to _keep trying,_ to _work 'till he was the best wizard he could be, to be so good that his family would have no _choice _but to love him._

These were _his parents_, after all. The parents who he'd spent hour after hour (before he discovered the lease books provided) fantasising about, dreaming that they were still alive, and that they'd come and take him away from the Dursleys. Because he knew, _knew_ that what the Dursleys had spouted were lies, that his parents were _good people_. It was part of what had kept him sane, after Vernon had visited him, during those so solitary dark nights in the cupboard, when he was so _lonely_, without even spiders as company, that he thought he would never again hear another human voice, never live to feel the arms of a warm, loving embrace.

And they _were_ wrong, weren't they? Lily and James had fought in a war against evil! They were brave! But everything was just so confusing, because even though his Uncle had been lying about, well, most things, he had told the truth about Liam, albeit years later/

Harry was just so desperate, in moments like this, watching _their_ mother smile at Liam, _their_ father grin at him, that he wanted to throw caution to the wind, wanted to forget so long as it allowed him to pretend, to _indulge_ himself, for once in his God-forsaken life.

His inner conflict was once again shattered by his brother speaking arrogantly to him. "What d'you _mean_ how? You're acting all weak and shy like a Hufflepuff!"

And Harry had to suppress something within him, something that had not happened in a long time. His abilities were getting a rise out of high strung emotions. Well, he guessed he could no longer call it by the stolen term: it was magic. Harry was _magic_.

He'd managed, so far, to mostly ignore the peculiar calling that being called a _wizard_ sent to him, the shiver of excitement, apprehension and _sheer_ _rightness_, in favor of meeting his dead parents. Harry had, after all, always been able to do it, known about it, and been able to use it; it was just a matter of having a name for what he could do and what he was.

Harry managed to force his magic down. The reason he'd _gotten_ so angry was that Lily's smile didn't falter upon Liam's words, and maybe, maybe it was just jealousy in disguise, Heaven knows insults no longer phased him, and such childish. Obviously uncultured ones at that, but Harry could recall Lilly showing clear, visible disagreement with James when he'd said the same. Yet now, all that was in Lily Potter's eyes was pride, reverence and something akin to hero worship? It was downright disconcerting to see just how far love strained to an obsession of a kind.

James fared no better, continuing to grin and wink at his son, as if Harry, their long lost recently reunited child, didn't matter, not a single bit.

And Harry supposed in the general scheme of things, he didn't, not really, when he all but paled in comparison to the all-mighty Boy-Who-Lived, who was actually, as per Harry's observations so far (for he still held it within him to reserve judgement) just a big-headed little boy.

Everyone watched as Dudl_-Liam_, right, Liam; God their similarities were downright creepy, but then again there _were_ related- as _Liam_ continued, his head held high, "Anyway, are you any good on a broom?"

_And a welcome home to you too, dear brother_, Harry thought only _slightly_ bitter as he remembered yet again what little knowledge he held in this world he had somehow fallen into. Really, the whole situation was so utterly ridiculous, that he had been making breakfast for the Dursleys just this morning, and now, now he was _here_.

The poor boy half expected to wake up in his cupboard after this realistic, weird dream had ended, banging his head on the ceiling, the Silence (he would have to research what it was actually called) the only thing stopping his relatives from hearing him.

But no, here he was, standing at the base at the stairs of _Potter Manor_, listening to his _twin brother _natter on unintelligently about something called Quidtritch. _No_, Harry corrected mentally after listening to the pronunciation more closely, _Quidditch_.

It seemed to be a game the equivalent of football, and something that Liam was quite passionate about. Huh. At least that was something different from Dudley- the only sport his cousin was interested in was beating-up-kids-who-weigh-less-than-me.

James seemed to love the sport, too, from the way his eyes lit up as he occasionally added to Liams running commentary. Surprisingly, Liam was actually quite likeable as he light-heartedly and feverishly talked about the sport. He sounded like a normal kid, his whole body lit up in the sort of delight a child could only muster. Innocent in a way Dudley could never be.

"...And, _oh_, dad took me to see the game between Puddlemere United and the Chudleys! Ron was dead chaffed, he was, and even though the Canons lost, it was still totally wicked! Jadert, their chaser, nearly lost his _arm_," Liam sounded awed by the prospect, "and collided with Weatelbey, their seeker who was going in for the Wronski Feint…"

Oh, what Harry would've given to be able to relax like that. He vowed that he would find something that he was passionate about; in this world there had to be something that would make _him _look like that.

James chuckled at Liams antics as he ruffled his hair, causing Liam to whine, "Dadddd!" as he tried to put his hair back into place, to no avail.

_Well_, Harry thought, slightly amused despite himself, _that's one thing we have in common. _Abruptly, the boy full-out grinned, something he wasn't used to doing in the presence of others. _I'm in a magical house, and I'm with my parents, who cares how or why! I'm not gonna spend the whole time sulking just because I was battered around a few times!_

Granted, neither James, Lily, nor Liam noticed his change in demeanor, but Harry was fine with that. He was. He just wanted to know what happiness felt like, wanted to take his chance with it. And it just seemed plain stupid to forgoe it because he was an attention seeking whelp.

So Harry clung onto the feeling of freedom. It was so intense he felt as though he would sprout wings and take flight at a moments notice. Harry grasped at the sensation with both hands and clutched it tightly to his chest, vowing to never let anyone near it again, as he guarded it in a cage with his heart serving as the bars. Harry Potter felt, for what must have been the first time in his life, happy. Pure happiness, not the type that was gained vicariously through an adventure book.

**A/N: Um, hi. I'll probably maybe be abandoning this story. I mean, its okay, but now I've gotten into the HP fanfiction community more (sideglances at r/HPfanfiction) I've realised just how horrendously ****_tropey_**** this is. Manipulative!Dumbledore, Slytherin!OP!Abused!Harry WBWL! Potters/Ron/Dumble!bashing...I'm cringing. I mean, least I wasn't planning on the love potion trope, thank god.**

**That isn't to say of course, I'll be abandoning writing as whole. Honestly, in recent times i haven't been writing as much as I wanted. I've been focusing more on reading and art. I'm reading a lot more fanfiction (well, I was always reading a lot of fanfiction. Now I've just started reading more popular stuff) and I've started to branch out into more genres. Which means I want to write more lmao. **

**A lot has happened since I last wrote this. I've made new friends, been hospitalised, gotten therapy, became vegan, hell I even found out I was autistic!... (not necessarily in that order)**

**...This fic will always hold a special place in my heart. 30k words on my google docs! I was and am still proud. Yet, this is goodbye, for now. I haven't made any final decisions regarding this, not fully, so I'll leave it as hiatus. If anyone wants to adopt, feel free to PM. Hope you're all staying safe and social distancing! 3**


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